


Sleep Tight

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Complete, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Control, Nightmares, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicide mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 40,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave gets a good night's rest, and John stretches the limits of what can be considered a "prank," and not "completely violating your best bro's trust and probably ruining your friendship forever."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Intentions

**Author's Note:**

> (2015 Edit: Hey, apologies to people who read this before. I was/am such a shitty author for not properly tagging this work. If any future readers think there's a tag I should add, please do not hesitate to tell me so.)
> 
>  
> 
> This was originally written for the [kinkmeme](http://homesmut.livejournal.com/11895.html?thread=22136439#t22136439).

           You didn’t mean for it to go this far. It started out as a harmless gesture-of-kindness-turned-prank. Well. Sort of. You can explain, really!

==> Explain.

           You thought it was pretty cool (if a little irresponsible) that Dave’s Bro let him stay up so late! It was nice to not have to worry about Dave going to bed earlier than you, even though he lived in a different timezone. And it was kind of funny how silly Dave would be when you logged on to pesterchum in the morning, having stayed up all night when you were getting a good night’s rest.  
           Well. It wasn’t that funny. You actually kind of wish Dave wouldn’t stay up so late. You’re actually kind of sort of worried about him, if you’re honest with yourself. But whenever you try to talk about it, he just brushes you off!

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [GT] at 6:17 

EB: woah dave what are you doing up so early?   
TG: earlys a relative term like whats our basis here for early   
EB: uh well its still dark here  
EB: that seems pretty early to me    
TG: thats where youre running into trouble egbert  
TG: sun never sets in texas  
TG: just keeps pounding down day after day soaking heat and misery into the sidewalk   
EB: wow dave that’s kind of...depressing  
EB: and totally not true??   
TG: shit son you doubting my sincerity  
TG: im hurt bro  
TG: fuckin bleeding out here from all those sicknasty wounds your mistrust just dealt me   
EB: that’s not what i meant! just that the sun sets everywhere   
TG: nope not here im like the british empire  
TG: sun never sets on this kingdom of cool   
EB: ...  
EB: dave, have you been up since last night?   
TG: no such thing as night egbert  
TG: just days and days and days   
EB: come on dave be serious  
EB: why don’t you ever get any sleep?   
TG: because shut up egbert  
TG: shut up and mind your own fucking business is why

ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

 

           Hehe, that Dave, always--  
           No.  
           You know he’s supposed to be cool and all, but sometimes. Sometimes you wish Dave Strider was just a little less of a fucking jerk.

 

==> Be the fucking jerk. 

           Shitgoddamnfuckingtittymunchingsmuppetfucker _asshole_.  
           You know John’s just worried about you. You _know_ that. But sometimes you just end up saying exactly the wrong thing. You’d blame it on the sleep deprivation, if you were willing to acknowledge that that was what was going on here. But that was ridiculous. Dave Strider, suffering from insomnia? It was such an aloof cool-guy trope, way too overdone and lame for someone like you. You’re just not tired is all. It has absolutely nothing to do with worrying about being ambushed with smuppets every time you close your eyes. Nope, you completely and totally do not have nightmares about Bro’s sick puppets. You don’t jump out of bed at every little noise, worried that Bro’s about to pull another one of his you-should-always-be-prepared-to-fight-for-your-life late-night attacks. Nope. Not you. Because that would be so completely not-cool. Which is the thing that you’re not. You’re not-not cool, which is like being cool except a million times okay you know what these linguistic gymnastics are too much for you to handle right now let’s just drop it.

           This isn’t the first time Egbert’s shut down one of your pesterchats after you started insulting him, but you think this time, you might have gone too far.  
           So when you get a package a few days later post-marked Washington, you’re filled with equal parts relief that he’s still talking to you and worry that this is his goodbye letter (because he would be just the kind of guy to think a pesterlog was too informal a medium to end a friendship over). Not that you’d ever let either of those emotions show. At least, not until you’re back in your room, opening the package where your Bro can’t see you.  
           When you pull a CD out, you’re first reaction is to snort. A mixed tape, Egbert? Really? Is it possible he could be jonesing for your ass in a more clichéd fashion?  
           You unfold the note that came with it.

hey dave! i was sitting here thinking to myself, you know what’s super lame? all those beats dave’s always mixing! i should totally send him some of my music and give him some sicknasty BURNS with all this coolness i’m packing!  
hehehe, just kidding. but listen to this when you go to sleep tonight (or today, since the sun never sets on the land of lame :P). let me know if it helps!

~ectoBiologist (john) 

           You pop the CD in, curious. First, though, you put your headphones on, securing them over your ears so that there’s no chance of Bro hearing whatever lame music John’s trying to prank you with. Then you hit play.

           It’s—piano?   
           You blink, putting your head in your hands after the first few measures, concentrating on the music. It’s—not bad, really. Just not the kind of thing you’d normally listen to. Sort of...soft. Inviting. And there’s this thrumming under it all that John must’ve edited in, like a call to slow down, breathe, just re l a...  
           You jerk up in your seat, confused until you realize that you were nodding off in your chair. A glance at your computer reveals that you’ve been out for a few minutes and have actually gone on to the next track. You eject the CD from the discdrive, moving to shut off your computer for the night (so what if it’s still light out, you’ve been up for almost forty hours, it’s night whenever you _say_ it’s night) before thinking better of it and shooting off a quick message on pesterchum. _Then_ you shut down, pop the CD into our walkman (owned purely for ironic purposes, of course) and stretch out on your bed.

           You press play, starting from the beginning again, and there it is, that same piano refrain as before, with this deep humming underneath that makes it feel like you’re listening to the sound the stars would make if there was any air to carry their music to earth. You try to identify what Egbert used to make it, but then your eyes are closing, and you just feel kind of heavy, and soft, and...peaceful.  
           You’re asleep before the end of the first track.

==> Be the kid who’s packing all kinds of cool. 

_You can’t be him, he’s asleep!_

==> Not that guy, the one with sicknasty piano beats! 

_Oh. That guy. Uh, okay? If you’re sure that’s how to best describe him (because it’s really not)..._

           You hear two pings in rapid succession, signaling that you have new messages on pesterchum. When you see that they’re from Dave, you find that you’re actually kind of nervous! Even though you plan to play it off as a joke if he doesn’t like the music you sent him, you really really hope he likes the music you sent him. You did all kinds of research (thirty minutes on the internet) to find the most relaxing tones! You even wrote some of the music just for him! And then there’s the bonus track you put in there, that could actually end up sounding really creepy oh god why did you send that CD what were you thinking.

           You open up pesterchum, surprised to find that Dave has already logged back out. His messages are short.

turntechGodhead [GT] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 5:23  
  
TG: thanks   
TG: send more

turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] 

           You grin, opening up the music program on your computer. It’s time for you to work your magic.


	2. Test Run

==> Explain faster. 

_Hey, storytelling is an art. You can’t rush the slow exchange of tokens of friendship, the gradual_

==> Fasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfaster 

_Okay, okay! Fine. Skipping forward a few months..._

==> Dave, leave for your trip to John’s house! 

           You pat the side of your bag, checking for the fourth time to make sure you’ve got your iPod loaded with Egbert’s latest tracks (why he doesn’t just send them as mp3 files over the computer is still a point of contention between the two of you) in the sidepouch of your luggage before flicking off the lights of your room and closing the door behind you. Your Bro gives a nonchalant wave from the couch, lifting one arm to gesture lazily without taking his eyes off the shitty skateboarding game he’s playing. In the Strider household, it’s about the equivalent of a heartrending goodbye interspersed with wracking sobs. You shift the luggage strap on your shoulder a little higher, muttering a flat "Bye" before heading out the door of the apartment. It’s funny, you’re grateful for the plane ticket to Washington he gave you for Christmas, but something

==> Fasterfasterfaster 

_Geeze, alright, fine!_

           You settle into your seat on the plane, closing your eyes as you lean back and select playlist: Egderp. Your breathing automatically settles into a slow, even pattern when the first track starts up, John’s voice murmuring for you to relax in your ears. It was weird, the first time you heard his voice on one of the tracks--you hadn’t been sure it was his voice until you pestered him about it--but you weren’t really complaining. It was deeper than you remembered, but then, his voice had been bound to go through a few changes by the time his sweet sixteen rolled around.   
           It feels like no time has passed when your phone starts vibrating in your pocket, preset timer letting you know the flight should be touching down soon. The landing goes without incident and, twenty minutes later, you’re being flagged down by a bundle of John waving with the enthusiasm of a four-year-old who’s just been told he’s won a trip to Disneyland. There’s really no way you can possible top his ironic level-of-excitement (though you’re pretty sure he’s not being ironic at all), so you settle for a casual nod and a drawled-out "Sup."

==> Be the bundle of unironic excitement. 

           Ohmygosh it’s really Dave he’s really here he’s sitting right next to you in the passenger seat of your car it’s him it’s him it’s him it’s him  
           "Mind if I turn on some music?"   
           Your eyes darts over to him, but you can’t tell if he’s hinting at anything with those shades hiding half his face! Well, alright, maybe you wouldn’t be able to tell even if he wasn’t wearing them. But still, this feels like a totally unfair advantage for him when you’re already so easy to read to begin with, paling and stammering back a nervous "S-sure."  
           He stares at you for a minute, and your palms go sweaty on the steering wheel. Dammit Egbert, keep it together!  
           Whatever expression you’re wearing now, apparently it satisfies Dave, because he leans forward and clicks the radio on, fiddling with the dial until he finds a station you hadn’t even known _existed_ \--so how does he?  
           "Country?" you ask.  
           He shrugs, and you let it drop. Really, you’re just glad he didn’t suggest putting on one of the tracks you made for him. You’re not sure _what_ you would have done if you were trapped in a car with him when it got to one of...those parts.  
           You grip the steering wheel tighter, wondering for the hundredth time since Dave announced he was coming to visit for the weekend if he’d bring those tracks up. If he even knew they existed.

           It started out with you just trying to help your friend, really! Sure, you were hurt that he was being mean to you, but what was the point in getting mad at him if it wasn’t really his fault? If you really wanted things to go back to normal between you two, you’d help him get to sleep at night! That’s all you were trying to do. Help him. Hehe.

==> That is a very suspicious looking "hehe." 

           What? No! Okay, yes, maaaaaaaaybe you started putting in tracks meant to induce hypnosis. But that was perfectly understandable! The step from relaxation to a hypnotically-suggestive state was so _small_ , almost nonexistent!  
           And maaaaaaaaybe you started putting in commands. But you were just trying to set up a pattern of behavior! Give Dave code words to fall asleep to, so he’d relax faster and sleep better!  
           And, well. Okay, maybe you tested them out on him when he wasn’t listening to your tracks. Maybe you two just happened to be voice-chatting one night, and without really thinking about it (shaking with trepidation, wondering if it’d really work, man your prankster’s gambit would go through the fucking _roof_ ), you said the trigger word.  
           You heard a _thump_ on the other end as your pesterchum was assaulted with a string of " o0hjuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu," and your stomach did a weird slither of excitement, face flushing with excitement and a wicked totally-friendly-not-at-all-nefariously-motivated grin.  
           You were going to get him _so_ good.

 

           After the first successful test of your newfound control over you friend, you upped the ante, sending him tracks with more and more complicated (and embarrassing) commands. But every time you sent off a CD in the mail, you worried that this time, he might wake up in the middle of your recorded voice telling him to bleat like a goat or impersonate Nic Cage, and then the jig would be up!  
           And of course, there was no getting rid of the worry that maybe the jig had never been down to begin with. Maybe Dave was just pretending to be hypnotized when you fed him commands on your too-far-and-few-between pestervoicechats. Maybe he was just waiting for the perfect moment to flip the tables on you about how lame hypnosis was, and you weren’t sure if your prankster’s gambit could take it!

           So yeah. You’re a little nervous about him visiting you for a whole week.


	3. Control

==> John: Say the words. Be the prankster. 

           A corner of Dave’s mouth ticks down as you jump up, crowing aloud. "You can’t touch my mad skills!"  
           Dave tosses his controller aside, shifting back against the couch. "Blue shells are a cheap victory and you know it."  
           You slap him on the back, earning yourself a stiff glare. "Oh, come on Dave. Quit being such a sore loser."  
           "I’m not being a sore anything. It’s you that’s being the jerk here."  
           There’s an edge of anger to his voice, and some part of you loves that you’re getting a rise out of him, cracking that patented Strider cool. "Say it. Say you’re a loser."  
           "Fuck off Egbert."  
           You perch on the couch on your knees, facing him sideways. "Say it."  
           He presses his lips together in a thin line, refusing to look at you. You lean in, waiting for him to turn, to flinch, to tell you to fuck off again. When he doesn’t, you say, in as calm a voice as you can muster, "Put the bunny back in the box."  
           Dave doesn’t react at all, no word, no movement to indicate he’s even heard you. You tense, mentally preparing yourself for his inevitable "What the hell are you talking about?" or "So lame dude." But when the seconds tick by and he still hasn’t moved, you start to think that maybe, just maybe, this might have actually worked!  
           "Say you’re a loser," you repeat, voice taut with anticipation.  
           "I’m a loser." His voice is slow, full of molasses and heat and a Texan twang that he’s never let slip around you before. But it’s still delivered with the sort of deadpan you’d expect if he was just doing this for irony’s sake. So you decide you’ve got to test this out a bit more, now that you can see him and gauge the sincerity of his actions in person.  
           You stand up again, backing up a few feet so you can see his whole body. You realize from this vantage how relaxed he looks, legs casually sprawled apart, arms hanging limply by his sides, though his head is still up, staring straight ahead. Which gives you an idea.  
           "Take off your shades," you say. He doesn’t move, and you think, this is it, this is when he reveals that he’s never really been hypnotized, because he’d never take off his sunglasses, not even for the most ironic of exploits, but then his right hand is coming up and he’s tilting his head down, normally sharp movements slowed down to a crawl as he slips the shades you gave him off his face and slows to a still again, staring blankly at the glasses in his hand.  
           "Set them on the table," you say, and are surprised to find your voice coming out low and husky. You guess you’re just super stoked that this is actually working!  
           He does as you say, folding the aviators and setting them on the coffee table in front of the couch. You come closer, stepping around the table to stop directly in front of him. Placing a finger under his chin, you tilt his head up until he’s looking at you, right at you, and you can’t help it, you gasp aloud.  
           "Red. Your eyes are red!" You half expect him to come back with something snarky, like "Ladies and Gentlemen, we have ourselves here a grade-A genius" or something dumb like that. But he just keeps looking at you with that blank stare, and something twists in your stomach, something hot and heavy that says, _keep going_. So you do.

           "Dave." He smiles at that, and it makes him seem younger than you thought possible, a dopey look on his face and something like eagerness in his eyes, if someone can be said to be eager and vacant at the same time. "Dave," you repeat, racking your brain for something to say to him, some command to give him, but all the stuff you’ve prepped him for just doesn’t seem to fit this moment, right here, right now. Besides, all of that was so you could prank him without putting him under, and here he is, completely passive, completely under your control. Completely vulnerable. Who are you to pass up a chance like this?  
           And then you think of it, the opportunity that is practically begging for you to seize it.

           You swallow and shift back to give him room, throat tight. "Take off your shirt."  
           He stares at you for a few seconds more before breaking into motion, hands at the hem of his shirt and then over his head, lifting the clothing off with a fluidity you’re sure Rose would call "liquid grace" if this was some scene she was writing instead of something that you are doing right now (oh god you can’t believe you’re doing this right now). He’s moving faster than he was before, like your voice is important to him, like he likes doing what you ask him to, and as your best friend stares up at you from your couch with an openness that twists something inside you, sans shirt, you try to remember if liking obeying you was something you told him to do in one of your tracks, or just something he does all on his own. But why question it if it leaves Dave ripe for the pranking, right? Right!  
           Though this isn’t a prank, exactly. You eye his chest, the first clear look you’ve gotten of it since, well, forever. It always struck you as kind of weird that someone like Dave would have issues stripping, since he always went on about how cool he was! You almost expected to see something weird, like jagged scars or caveman-levels of body hair or even third nipple or something! But Dave’s chest is actually...really normal?  
           You kneel down in front of him, leaning in to scrutinize the palest swathe of flesh you’ve ever seen (and that’s including your dad’s legs, which are so white it’s practically blinding!). There actually _are_ a few scars, pale lines on pale skin, only barely visible. You bring your hands up to trace them, wondering what they’re from (he wasn’t really serious about swordfighting with his bro, was he?), and find that his chest is surprisingly firm, flesh giving the tiniest bit before your fingers meet corded muscle. Your hands travel down toward his stomach, and the fleshy-padding quality increases, though you’re pretty sure you can still feel muscle under there, and you’re suddenly a lot more nervous about your ability to take him down in hand-to-hand than you were before. Not that you want to fight him! It’s just, sort of, a matter of pride. He’s the fast one, and you’re (supposed to be) the strong one, but it looks like you’ve got some competition in that department!  
           Your hands still at the waistband of his jeans, and you wonder if you’ve got competition to worry about in...other departments. You hazard a look up at Dave, sort of falling back when you find him staring at you and are suddenly reminded that, oh, this is not just some disembodied chest, this is _Dave’s_ chest, and Dave’s pants, and Dave’s p-pa-package you’re thinking about here. Your eyes dart down to the, uhm, package, and a flush rises to your cheeks. This is...probably wrong, right? Looking at stuff Dave doesn’t want you to look at when he can’t really say no? (But then you think "can’t say no" and your thoughts trip over themselves in a twenty-ton train wreck as that flush creeps down your neck and you try to figure out why your palms are so sweaty, why your heart is beating so fast,  why you can’t stop imagining all the things Dave can’t say no to.)  
           You stand up, and Dave’s eyes follow you, empty pupils floating on pools of ruby-red wow you’ve been beta’ing too much of Rose’s writing lately. But something about that emptiness makes you shiver, and you decide, fuck it. What kind of prankster doesn’t push the envelope every now and then? It’s all for the sake of satisfying your curiosity your ego that weird pressure in your chest that’s been building and building with terror and power and the knowledge that Dave is vulnerable open trusts you completely and you can make him do _anything_ your prankster’s gambit.  
           Yep. Definitely only the prankster’s gambit, that’s what’s happening here.

           Pulling in a shaky breath, you say, "Take off your pants."

           He blinks, and something sort of flickers in his eyes, like he’s maybe actually _looking_ at you and oh shit oh shit oh shit what if he _wakes up _what are you going to do  
           "Dave." It’s squeakier than you intended, but his eyes dull again as that barest hint of a smile creeps back into place, and you breathe a sigh of relief. "Dave." He’s fixed on you, that sort of placid willingness firmly back in place, and you think to yourself, he likes it when I say his name. Somehow that makes you giggle (only a little hysterically), and it’s a second or two before you’re composed enough to say again, "Dave, take off your pants."  
           He doesn’t hesitate this time, standing up to unfasten his fly and shove his jeans down, deftly stepping out of the denim legs before tossing them after the shirt on the floor. And then Dave is standing in your living room wearing nothing but heart-print boxers.  
           Hoo boy.  
           His legs aren’t any sort of surprise, just long and thin with ridiculously muscled calves (but you guess that’s what happens when you live on the top floor of an apartment building with a perpetually broken elevator). Part of you wants to get a close look at them, too, clamoring that this is your chance! Dave’s not gonna let you run your hands up his legs if he has any say about it! But you have a feeling that if you stop and do that, you’ll never work up the nerve for the next part. Best to just plunge right in without thinking, right?  
           Right.__

           "Dave, take off--"  
           In the heartbeat of silence between words, you hear the catch on the side door click.  
           The door whooshes open, and panic seizes your chest when your Dad calls out from the kitchen, "I’m home!"

           Oh. _Shit._


	4. Temptation

==> John: Don’t panic.

           _Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit_

==> Shooooooooooooooooosh

           No, fuck shooshpapping, you’re standing with your mostly-naked mentally-compromised best friend in your living room and your dad just got home, this is definitely a time for panic!

           "Hide," you hiss, but you guess you have to be more specific, because he just vaults over the couch and crouches down on the other side. "Damnit Dave, hide in my _room_! Quick! Don’t let my dad see you." A second to stand up and look at you, a pleased smile, and then he’s gone, faster than you thought someone could move up the stairs and down the hallway and then there’s your dad pushing through the swinging doors that connect the kitchen to the living room and here you are, casually whistling, nothing to see here except whoops looks like you forgot Dave’s clothes on the ground.  
           You kick them under the coffee table with a strained smile fixed in place, squeaking out a totally inconspicuous, "Hey Dad."  
           You are the master of deception. It is you.  
          He gives you a look, one of those unreadable "dad looks" that makes you sweat and want to blurt out all of the things you might be in trouble for at once. But you’ve got this! You’ve got this. You have so totally completely got this.  
           "Where’s your friend?" _oh fuck he knows he knowsheknowsheknowsheknoooooooows  
           shut up you idiot he doesn’t know anything he’s just being dad_  
           You force a laugh before abruptly realizing that his question isn’t really funny and try to pull yourself together with a nonchalant shrug. "He’s, uh, sleeping. Jet lag and all that. Hehe."  
           Your dad is still looking at you kind of funny, but apparently he buys it, because he says, "Well, dinner will be ready at six. Hope he feels up to it by then, I’d love to put a face to the name, since he’s so important to you."  
           He turns to go back into the kitchen, no doubt already mentally mapping out an extravagant "guest" dinner that is only fifty percent baked goods instead of the normal eighty, when he pauses and looks back at you. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right? That I’ll always love you, no matter what?"  
           You’re not really sure what brought that on, and normally you’d laugh it off, but right now you can’t stop worrying about Dave being in your room completely unattended, so you just give a short, "Uhm, sure. Right." He looks at you, then gives a little nod to himself, before going back into the kitchen. You wait until you hear him rummaging around, pans clanging together and cabinets opening, before breathing a sigh of relief and bundling Dave’s things in your arms, darting up the stairs and down the hall to your bedroom.  
           Which is...empty?  
           You shut the door behind you, calling out a cautious, "Dave? You can, uhm, stop hiding now."  
           His head pokes out from behind your bed and you smother a laugh at the comedic quality of it, your efforts resulting in a throaty half-chuckle as you flop onto the bed.  
           "Man, that was close!" you say, reaching out a hand to ruffle his hair on impulse. Wow, it’s really soft! You hum under your breath, threading your fingers through it. His eyes close as he pushes into your touch, dark eyelashes on pale skin making him seem somehow fragile and delicate, and your breath catches, because he is just so perfect perfect perfect.   
           You blink. Is it okay to call Dave perfect? Is that something bros do? You’re not really sure, and you shift uneasily, pulling back from him. Now that you’re thinking about it, you’re pretty sure that running your hands up his bare chest and making him strip to his boxers isn’t something bros do either. You’re suddenly very aware of him, of how exposed he is, and how tipped the power scales are. His eyes are still closed, lips slightly parted, and you watch him exhale, lower lip trembling, and can’t banish the guilt that wells up inside you.  
           "Come here," you say, and his eyes open, trusting, so trusting, as he clambers onto the bed with you, slipping close with that patented Strider brand of smooth to sit cross-legged and loose, and you can feel the heat of him even with the foot of open air that separate you two.   
           "Are you okay?" you ask.   
          He tilts his head, for all the world like a puzzled bird, and repeats after you. "Okay?"  
           You blow out a breath in frustration. "Yes, okay, alright, good—are you—" and you break off, because what you really want to ask is if he’s okay with this, but you’re not sure you could handle it if he said no.  
           He keeps looking at you, happy and silent and empty, and you would just strangle him if you didn’t know it’s your fault he’s like this in the first place. That’s the worst part, you think. He’s getting you so flustered, and it’s not even _him_ , it’s you yanking him around, pulling his strings, because something about having him under your control is making you lose all control of yourself.  
           You reach out to brush his hair again with your fingertips, then stop midway there. A glance at the clock shows that it’s 5:12, and you’re not sure that if you start messing with Dave again, you’ll be able to stop ever in time for dinner. You bite at your lip, really wanting to ignore that sensible part of yourself, but then think, you’ve got a whole week, and you should probably make sure that you’ve trained (heheh, that makes it sound like he’s your pet or something!) him to forget right before you let things get any gayer more serious.   
           You sigh, ruffling his hair again as a personal reward for making the "right" decision, and say, "Okay, guess it’s time to get you ready for dinner."


	5. Safety First

==> Dave: Wake up.

           There’s a hint of pressure on your shoulder, and you’re up without thinking about it, leaping out of bed to grab your unknown assailant by the arm and swing him into the mattress, forcing him down with your knee in his back and his arm pulled tight. It’s only then that you realize that your "unknown assailant" is actually John Egbert.  
           "Dave?" his voice is muffled by the bedding you’ve got his face shoved into, but you let his arm drop as soon as he says your name, backing up with your hands in the air.  
           "Sorry," you mutter, wincing with him when he pulls himself straight and rubs at the shoulder you wrenched. He stays back, expression nervous and wary, and you mentally curse yourself. Great fucking job Dave, only hours in and you're already scaring your bro off with Strider-fu. You open your mouth to apologize some more, but what are you supposed to say, sorry I have puppet traumatic strider disorder, don’t try to wake me up or I might slice your face off? Normally you set your phone alarm when you go to sleep to prevent just this from happening, which, hey, that’s actually a good point, when did you fall asleep?  
           "Are you okay?" You get the weirdest sense of déjà vu, like he’s asked you that before, but you brush it off. "Yeah," you say. "Just…don’t wake me up." He nods, but he still looks nervous, so you add, "Unless it’s with a kiss," which makes him blush and choke out a "D-dave!" Seeing your opportunity, you push the innuendo angle, figuring flustered Egbert balances out clueless Dave.  
           "How did I end up in your bed, anyway? You been spiking my drinks? I know I’ve got an ass hotter than your flaming homo-crush on Nic Cage, but taking advantage is just rude, and all kinds of unnecessary. If you wanted a piece of this, all you had to do was ask. I come for the very affordable price of forty dollars an hour, fifty if you’re in to something freaky." He’s blushing redder than your old record shirt, and you have to suppress a snicker of satisfaction.  
           "You, uh, fell asleep," he says, but he can’t meet your eyes. You’d think he was lying and would needle him some more, but there’s a voice in the back of your head saying _yes, I was tired from the flight, I fell asleep and John helped me to his bed_.  
           You swallow around a mouth that’s suddenly gone dry, not sure why your brain feels fuzzy, but willing to blame it on your nap being cut short. "Okay," you say, and the softness of the word sort of surprises you, but Egbert finally relaxes, so you let that go too.  
           He clears his throat, shifting with too much energy, and you quirk a brow, willing to wait him out. "My dad came home," he squeaks out, and you have a second to feel nervous before he continues, "and dinner should be ready about now," and now you’re feeling downright distraught. Shit, how did you forget that Egbert had a dad, one who would probably be way too interested in his son’s friends? And _of course_ the Egberts ate dinner up to the table, which would leave you effectively trapped and subject to lord only knew how many "polite" invasive none-of-his-fucking-business inquiries. But the kid is looking all kinds of nervous, smile strained and just a little too tight, like a dude bringing home his Puerto Rican poolboy to his traditional catholic parents to announce the upcoming nuptials, so you just say, "I’m starving," and some of the tightness goes out of his expression.

           You first impression of John’s old man is that he’s a square, and just the word popping into your head makes you cringe. Spend too much time in this house and you’ll be just as lame as them. But you have to admit that the word is pretty apt—squared-off shoulders, crisp-cut linen shirt, dress pants with such a heavy crease it looks like they just came out from under the iron, and the sort of douchebag fedora the hipsters were all slobbering over themselves about these days, but you’re pretty sure he’d been wearing since they were cool the first time around. He gives you a look, not like he’s sizing you up, but like he’s searching for something, and you eye him right back, all swagger and slouch, hands resting easy in your jean pockets. He sticks out his hand, and you stare at it for half a second before you realize he expects you to shake it, and find yourself sweating about handshaking etiquette and how hard is too hard and how loose is going to make you come across as a pussy. You shove down your doubts and take his grip and _shit_ , mangrit runs in the fucking family. You resist the urge to shake your hand out when you pull it back, and damnit if the fucker isn’t smirking at you when he says "Nice to meet you, son."  
           "Same back at’cha pops," you say, satisfaction running high when he quirks his brows at you in amusement. John is hovering a foot away, all smiles and oversized gestures. You sit down in a bid to make him stay still, but it’s not until the old man sits down that John settles into the chair opposite you.   
           "Would you like to say grace?" the old man asks, and somehow _that’s_ what trips you up. If it was one of your neighbors back in Texas, or even one of your Bro’s dates come over to meet the kid and feel like more than just another fling, you’d have accepted the offer and laid down some sick rhymes about Jesus being a friend of yours in the biblical sense. But this is Egbert’s dad, and hell, Egbert probably considers himself some kind of religious too, even though you’ve never really talked about it with him, so you shake your head and look down in what you hope is a respectful manner when Mr. Egbert takes up the call.

           Dinner goes off without too much of a hitch, the only real trouble coming at the first bite you take into Mr. Egbert’s cake, a breathy " _fuuuck_ " escaping your mouth before you can really think about it. The old man gives you a stern look, but it softens when you start shoveling cake into your mouth, grunting your approval with every bite. John gave you a look of utter horror, like you’d started eating puréed kittens, so you grabbed his dish and dumped his portion of cake onto your plate too, which seemed to make him forgive you a little.   
           After dinner, John made to bolt back to his room, and you were more than willing to follow, but the old man laid a hand on your shoulder, keeping you behind for "a word." John gave you a thumbs up before absconding the fuck out, which you guessed meant this was a normal dad sort of thing, but didn’t make you curse him for abandoning you any less.

           "Look here son," he says, and you really wish he’d stop calling you that, "I’m grateful that you’ve been such a good friend to John," and that sort of irks you, like you being his friend is some kind of chore, "but I need you to be on the level with me." His tone is irritating—the only person allowed to talk down to you is Bro, and that’s only because he can legitimately kick your ass—but you’ve got another six days here, and that’s six potential heavenly cakes you’d be throwing away if you give him lip, so you settle with your customary "Sup."  
           If he’s thrown, he doesn’t show it, just gestures at the counter and asks you to take a seat on a barstool. You lean against it instead, hooking a thumb in one of your pockets, daring him to say something. He doesn’t take the bait, just loosens his tie and looks down at the counter. "I consider myself a very open-minded man," he begins, and your mind is already churning out comebacks, but shut up for just two seconds and let the man speak, "and I would love John no matter who he associated with. But I need you to be honest with me, and to understand that there are rules about what you can and can’t do in my household."   
           Okay, now he’s just pissing you off. What does he think, you’re some ghetto-kid drug-addict, looking to lure John into the illicit world of big city gangs? You bet Jade and Rose didn’t get the stern talking-to when they visited John, but then, they were just sweet innocent girls (and it makes you itch using "Rose" and "innocent" in the same sentence, even in your thoughts), from the good sides of their respective towns.   
           "Look pops," you say, letting an edge creep into your voice, "if you don’t like me, just come out and fucking _say_ it."  
           The old man frowns. "No cursing," he says. "I understand that you’re a young teenage boy, and that you’re into ‘the rap scene,’" geez, how does he expect you to take him seriously, "but in this household, we do not curse. It is a matter of respect."  
           You bristle. He’s just so _condescending_ , it gets under your skin. It doesn’t matter how heavenly the cake is, you can’t let him talk to you like that. "I’ll show you some respect," you say, "when you motherfucking _earn_ it."  
           He goes still then, and here it is, you screwed up and now he’s going to send you packing, and you can’t help the grim sense of satisfaction you feel for ruining someone’s image of you in record time.   
           "I’m sorry," he says, which is unexpected, _he’s_ apologizing to _you_? "I seem to have offended you. You’re correct in that you don’t know me, and you do not know if I am somebody worth respecting. But I hope that you will respect that I am John’s father, and I am trying to do what I think is best for him. That includes teaching him to speak in an appropriate manner, to behave at all times with honor and integrity, and to be _safe_." He pauses, and you mull over his words, anger dissipating. You guess those aren’t really all that unreasonable of requests. "That includes practicing safe sex."   
           You choke, sputtering on air as you flush red. He keeps going in your silence, talking about young men and hormones, how his son is not to be toyed with or used, and hands you a pack of condoms with a pat on the shoulder and a "Be safe." Then he’s standing up to clear the dishes from the table, leaving you to stumble down the hallway to John’s room in a daze with a fistful of Trojans. You remember to stuff them in your back pocket before you reach his door, collecting yourself and taking back some of your swagger before going through.  
           John’s sitting at his computer watching videos. He looks over his shoulder when you walk in, flashing an apologetic grin. "Sorry he cornered you, he just sort of does that! What’d he want, anyway?"  
           You feel the tips of your ears going red, but you manage to keep things calm and professional. "Nothing much, just wanted to take some notes on how to be this fu—this cool."  
           John grins like you haven’t already made that joke a hundred times. Sometimes impressing this kid is so easy it almost makes you feel bad.   
           "Man," he says, "I guess you really _got his goat_!"  
           "Baaaaaa," you respond, but you’re not really sure why. Irony? John’s cracking up like some bozo just dropped a coconut on your head, so you decide to go with that. Yeah, bleating like a goat is totally ironic.   
           You close the door behind you, stepping in and shoving down your niggling sense of doubt, hoping the next six days are going to be a little less weird.


	6. Goodnight Moon

==> Make the next six days a lot more weird.

           _Heheheh, gladly._

           You are John Egbert, and you have honestly never been happier in your life.

           Pranking Dave is fun. But having him there with you is _amazing_. You've never really thought of yourself as lonely, even though you're by yourself most of the time. But having him there with you is hitting something you needed without even realizing it. It's better than logging on to pesterchum and seeing your friends' names highlighted as online; it's waking up in the middle of the night and hearing the steady breathing of someone else in your room, it's fixing a meal for yourself and not having to package half of it away because everything is portioned for a family of four and teenage boy or not, there's only so much you can eat. It's having someone to watch movies with—even if he makes fun of them nonstop—so that when you start tearing up or realize an important plot point or piece of foreshadowing that you never saw before, there's actually someone for you to tell! Even if he keeps taking the throw all for himself and hogging the popcorn.

           You mean to put Dave under again that first night, but you sort of forget! After running out videos of watch on youtube, you dragged him back out to the living room, piling up pillows and burrowing under your comforter ("Don't worry Dave, we can share! Heheheh.") for the first of what you hope will be many movie marathons. He made fun of all the best ones and tossed pieces of popcorn at the screen and you punched him in the arm, but you didn't really mind all that much. You must've fallen asleep, because the next thing you remember after Matthew Mcchonaughey bringing Sarah Jessica Parker back to meet his parents is Dave nudging you, saying softly, "Egbert, yo Egbert. Much as I appreciate your slobbering face on my chest, maybe we should take things back to your place?"  
           You didn't really catch all of what he was saying, just sort of lifted your head (which, huh, _was_ on his chest, how did that happen?), wiping at the little bit of drool at the corner of your mouth and responding with an inarticulate, "Mhrng?" You know you must have still been more than half asleep, because you thought you saw Dave give a little smile at that. He stood up and pulled you after, draping one of your arms over his shoulder and dragging you upstairs. You remember hitting your mattress with a _whumpf_ , giggling when Dave tried to swing your legs on after you. You watched him kick the spare mattress into place on the floor next to your bed and gave him a lazy grin.  
           "Jesus Egbert, if this is what you act like when you're tired, I'd hate to see you drunk." You threw a pillow at him, but it just sort of flopped lazily to the floor. He snagged it for himself, and you laughed, finding something about it just hilarious. He went to work a pair of buds in his ears, pausing when you said, "Wah mm'elp?"  
           "I think I can get these in myself." He demonstrated by popping the second one in and wriggling under his covers.  
           "I mehn fallin asleep."  
           You peered over the edge of your bed and he looked up at you, propped up on one elbow, hesitating over the play button on his ipod.   
           "How?"  
           "Easy. Jus hafta say goodnight moon."  
           He stared at you for half a second before slumping to the side, limbs loose and heavy with the sudden onset of sleep. You flopped back on your bed, smiling to yourself as you hugged a pillow to your chest, setting your thoughts adrift. This was going to be the best week ever.


	7. Saturday

           "I'm totally cool! I have _all_ of the cool. All of it!"  
           "Dude, no, stop. You're just embarrassing yourself here."  
           You tossed the skinny jeans in your hands at Dave, sticking out your tongue. Dave caught them easily, carefully folding them before setting them on the rack they came from, because being a considerate customer was "ironic as hell."   
          "If I ever need advice on how to prank someone so hard they piss their pants laughing, I'll call you," he said. "But this is sort of my area of expertise, and you are in serious need of a swagger coach."  
           You plucked at the other clothes on the rack, frowning. "I just don't see what's wrong with the stuff I wear."  
           You could feel Dave roll his eyes, even if you couldn't really see them behind his shades. "Nothing's wrong with you. You're the perfect picture of derp. But you asked for my help in picking up ladies, and working on your image is the first step."  
           You sighed. Going to the mall with Dave had seemed like a really good idea! And you were having tons of fun, until you may have mentioned that all the ladies were looking at Dave and then Dave said he could make them look at you and _that_ had seemed like a good idea too but now all these clothes just seemed embarrassing and not right for you and argh. Shopping was hard. It was hard and if somebody out there understood, it definitely wasn't Dave.  
           "Now stop being such a girl and go try these on." Dave shoved another stack of clothes at you and began propelling you to the nearest dressing room.  
           "I am _not_ being a girl," you say. "If anything, you're the one acting all girly, getting into this shopping stu—" you stop, suddenly struck by an idea.  
           "What." The way Dave says it isn't really a question, but you realize that halting just outside the dressing room in mid-sentence is probably pretty suspicious, so you just flash him a big smile. "Nothing! I'm just going to try these clothes on now. Heheh."  
           His eyebrows furrow, a little line creasing is forehead, but he doesn't say anything, so you abscond, ducking into one of the stalls and out of sight.

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

EB: rose!  
EB: rose rose rose rose rose rose rose roooooooose!  
EB: pick up pick up pick up  
EB: rose i need you to do a favor for me!  
EB: i can see you online! i know you're there, now ANSWER ME!   
TT: Is your house on fire?   
EB: roooo what? no?   
TT: Are you currently under siege?   
EB: okay HAHA lets make fun of egbert because he doesn’t want to wait around forever for his friends to answer him when they are VERY CLEARLY ONLINE.   
TT: I was otherwise occupied.   
EB: that makes me want to ask all kinds of questions, but i have more important things! things i need you to do for me!   
TT: The shirt goes on your torso; the pants go on your legs. I would assure you that the zipper on "skinny jeans" functions in approximately the same way as it does on khaki shorts, but as I have never worn men's jeans or men's shorts, my assurances would have less than an airtight foundation.   
EB: that's not what wait how do you know what i'm doing?  
EB: are you spying on me?   
TT: I like to think of it as observing the male specimen in his natural habitat.   
EB: WHAT!   
TT: Or, phrased another way, no.  
TT: I was talking to Dave.  
TT: He seems concerned that you may have managed to maim yourself with a plastic clothes hanger, as you are taking longer than he expected.   
EB: oh well no, i was just trying to pester you.  
EB: but wait, don't tell him that!   
TT: I had no intention of doing so.  
TT: Now would you care to elaborate on this urgent "favor" you require of me?   
EB: i need you to call me!   
TT: Call you.   
EB: yeah! i want to hear the song i have as your ringtone!    
TT: Are you aware that you can play the song normally, without outside assistance, using the music player feature that comes standard on most modern phones?  
TT: And even lacking that, you can select it in the menu when customizing ringtones, thereby hearing a preview of that song?   
EB: yeah but that's really short! I need the song to play over and over and over again.   
TT: You don't know how to work your phone, do you?   
EB: …no.   
TT: May I at least ask why you need this song to play?   
EB: heheh, nope!   
TT: A prank then.   
EB: i didn't say that!   
TT: I know; I have been present for approximately as much of this conversation as you. I inferred it.   
EB: dammit rose i've been in this dressing room forever now and i haven't even gotten changed! Are you going to do it or not?   
TT: That is not the most convincing argument I have ever heard.  
TT: But seeing as you seem intent to carry out whatever shenanigans you are planning or leave Dave to pine away in your absence trying, I suppose I can do you this favor.   
EB: sweet!   
TT: But you owe me an explanation.   
EB: heheh, alright, alright.   
EB: but right now, i need you to call me, and don't stop!  
EB: well not RIGHT NOW right now  
EB: more like in thirty seconds.  
EB: in thirty seconds start calling me and don't stop!   
TT: Your commands are duly noted, captain.   
EB: thanks rose!

ectobiologist [EB] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

           Grinning, you exit your stall, rushing back to Dave in the waiting area. It isn't until he levels a flat look at you, head going up and down to scan your clothes, that you realize you still haven't tried anything on! Whoops.  
           "There wasn't anywhere to put my stuff!" you blurt out. "So I'm going to, uh, leave it out here. With you." You give a little smile, proud of yourself for thinking so quickly on your feet.  
           "It took you that long to figure that out? I weep for your future children, who, by the way, would be born by now if you'd bothered to consummate our bromance before you set off on your trek through the wild forests of JCPenny's changing rooms."  
           You open your mouth to fire a quip back at him, but then you remember that Rose is going to start calling any second, so instead you just say "Yeah, sure, okay!" and toss your phone and jacket in the chair next to where Dave's standing before rapidly absconding.

==> Dave: Pine away in his absence.

           Pine away in whose absence? Egbert's? Nah, you're all about giving your bro some space. He can figure out how to change clothes on his own. Probably. Though the whole storming out here to toss his stuff on the chair thing was pretty weird. Maybe he tried on the clothes already but didn't realize he was supposed to show you? He's sort of—  
           " _I'm goin out tonight, I'm feeling alrigh, I'm gonna let it all hang ou-ou-out!_ "  
           Music starts up from the chair at your side, and you glance down to see John's phone glowing as "I Feel Like a Woman" rings out. You reach out to check it, then hesitate. You'd be pretty mad if John picked up your phone when you weren't around. People should, like, respect eachother's privacy and stuff. Then again, maybe just one little peek wouldn't hurt? Just so you can tell him who he missed a call from. You bite your lip, considering, but then the music abruptly cuts off. Looks like you missed it. Not a big deal really. Egbert's your bro, and it's not cool to—  
           " _I'm going out tonight, I'm feelin' alright—_ " Oh, there it goes again. You toss your hair out of your eyes, studiously ignoring it. What do you care if John's got some hussy calling him nonstop? He's here with you, not her, and that says tons more anyway. But you can't really help humming along with the tune. Shania Twain is just so catchy! She's like, totally your girl.  
           John comes back out in the middle of the song's third go-around, but if he notices it, he doesn't say anything, and it's kind of slipped your mind. You hate to shower yourself with praise (who are you kidding, you're hot stuff, and everyone should know it), but damn, you are _good_. Those jeans hug his ass tighter than your sick rhymes, and even though most boys look like hipster douches in flannel, John's got the arms to pull it off, cloth outlining muscle to make him look strong in the sort of casual sweep-you-off-your-feet way, rather than meathead caveman way. He missed a button at the top, and even though you'd been planning to tie a kerchief around his neck for irony's sake, now you're realizing what a crime it would be to cover up those delicious collarbones. Damn, you just want to eat that boy right up!  
           John looks over at you, grinning sheepishly. "How do I look?" He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, which sends his shirt riding up to give you a peek at his stomach, and you can't help licking your lips. When your eyes wander back up to his face, his look is downright mischievous, and you wonder if he knows what he's doing to you. You shift casually, swinging your hips and arching a little to show off your chest as you sashay over. Sex in sneakers, that's you.   
           "You look fine," you say, feeling momentarily disconcerted when you step close and have to look down to see his baby blues. Isn't John supposed to be taller than you? You shake it off when you slip a hand around his back to squeeze his ass, eliciting a surprised yelp. " _Really_ fine." You let loose a giggle, scrunching down to lean your head against his shoulder, which would have been just perfect if he didn't start guffawing at that exact moment. You pull back and glare at him over your shades, pursing your lips. "What? What's so funny?"

==> John: Tell Dave what's so funny.

           Oh, god, no, no no no, you can't do that! You can barely breathe, oh god, this is too good this is the _best_ , oh _jesus_ you had no idea pranking him would go _this well_.  
           Dave's giving you this sexy girly pout, arms crossed and hip cocked to the side as he flutters his eyelashes at you. Shania's belting out another "Woah-oh-oh!" and the only thing better than Dave ironically acting like a girl to it is Dave acting like a girl because you _made him_. If you'd had any idea what this trigger would do to him, you would've set it off a lot sooner.  
           "If all you're going to do is laugh at my genius, I'm going to truss you up in floral print and leave you for the wild women to tear apart." You want to apologize, you really do, but his voice just makes you laugh harder. He's got this high little squeak, not quite a falsetto, but definitely a put-on voice meant to make him sound like a twelve-year-old girl. When he harrumphs and spins on his heel, you literally keel over, falling to one knee and then slowly tilting to the side until you're on the ground, laughing so hard there are tears rolling down your face.   
           "You are _such_ a weirdo." That voice cuts through your laughter, and you manage to pull yourself together, sitting up and wiping at the water leaking from your eyes. "Sorry," you manage to get out. "I'm just, really glad! That you think I look good, I mean."  
           Dave gives a dramatic sigh (you really like this whole more-expressive business, maybe you should get him to do that all the time?) before offering a hand to help you back up. "Of _course_ you look good John, my taste is fucking impeccable."  
           You launch to your feet and stumble forward a step, ending up closer to Dave than you meant to. He gives you a little smile, brushing a lock of your hair back behind your ear. Your breath hitches a little, and you feel the sudden urge to kiss him say, "Then I guess I should change back so I can buy these."   
           "Need my help with that?" His voice has settled closer to normal, the breathiness in it somehow more effectively feminine than any high-pitched squeak.   
           "I uh," you can feel your cheeks heating, "I can do it. On my own."  
           He leans another inch closer, and thoughts flee, head empty when the heat of his breath tickles your skin. "Let me know if you change your mind, big boy." Then he slips away, hips rocking to make you stare at his ass and feel heat coil in the pit of your stomach in a way that's totally girly! Which is lame. Haha. Ha.   
           You change back as fast as you can, rushing back out to pick up your phone and tell Rose to stop calling. You'd wanted to make him embarrass himself all afternoon, but you'd decided to keep him all to yourself take pity on him and call Rose off. Not before snapping a pic with your phone of him twirling his hair with his fingers though. Heheheh.


	8. Sunday

           You stare at Egbert, trying to come up with a response that maintains your cool and comes off sufficiently flippant, but you're sort of at a loss. You and your Bro respect no boundaries, but Egbert's your best friend, and when it comes to his religion, you feel like you have to tread lightly.  
           His grin is fading a little. "Dave? Is that okay?" His eyes are getting a little bigger, and if you don't say something, he's going to go into full on puppy-dog. Shit. Time to take one for the team. "I'm gonna level with you here Egbert. I don't go to church."  
           His grin comes back full-force. "Oh, well that's fine then! I can tell you what to wear and stuff. You can follow my lead!"  
           You want to let it go, you do, but you're out of your element here, and it's probably best to just rip all the band-aids off at once. "What I'm saying is I don't believe in God. I've got no problem with your Big Man upstairs, but I'm going to be honest, I don't really know etiquette here. If you don't want to let me in the church, tempting all those virtuous sheep. Or, you know. Bursting into flames."  
           Egbert's eyes are way past puppy-dog and all the way into deer-in-the-headlights, and you hold back a wince, wondering if you've screwed this up and should have kept your mouth shut. "Yo Egbert, don't leave me hanging. Spill."  
           "I uh, wow. I didn't know. I'm sorry."  
           Now you do grimace. "It's not like I'm diseased or some shit. I'm just saying I didn't know if you and your dad wanted me tagging along if I didn't really believe."  
           He blinks rapidly. "Uh, well. Do you _want_ to go?"  
           You shrug. "S'cool. I could go, but if you don't want me there, I'll hang back here and surf the web, maybe update some blogs."  
           "Oh. Well. I'd like you with me. If that's okay."  
           You give him a tiny smile. "Yeah. That's okay."

==> John: Watch Dave burst into flames on the threshold. 

           What? No! Dave looks fine. Well, okay, he looks kind of nervous. To you anyway, nobody else seems to have noticed. When he gets up right after sitting down muttering "Bathroom," though, you follow, a little worried that maybe you shouldn't have made him come.

           You catch up to him leaning over the sink, splashing water on his face, glasses folded up on the counter. He looks up when you enter, those red eyes going wide and scared for a second before dropping back into a deadpan.  
           "You okay?"  
           "I'm so ok the ref is about to count to three and ring the bell."  
           You give a weak grin. "I think that's KO."  
           "That's just how good I am, set my opponents seeing cross-eyed."  
           "Did you want to go home?"  
           He runs a hand through his hair before settling his glasses back on his face. "Yes. No. I don't know. This just feels really weird, y'know? There's two-dozen one-liners from here to the front door. I could write a whole album on what I've seen in ten minutes, but all these people are just so _sincere_. They're not asking for it, pushing anything on me, I'm the one that came into their territory. I'm the one that doesn't belong here."  
           You take a step forward, voice going up. "Dave, are you _nervous_?"  
           He barks out a laugh. "Yeah, I guess I am."  
           You shift your weight from one leg to the other. "Do you, want me to help you relax?"  
           "Are you offering me a pack of happy pills Egbert?"  
           You give a shaky grin. "Uh, not really? I just thought I might know something that could help. If you wanted."  
           He sighs, shoulders inching their way down, though still tense. "Sure. Lay it on me."  
           "Put the bunny back in the box."  
           His reaction is instantaneous, and you have to move quick to be by his side and keep him on his feet. "Hey, woah. Stay standing, okay?"  
           "Mm-hm." He straightened, taking his own weight, and you grinned. That was actually pretty easy! Now all you had to do was get him back out in the pews.

==> Dave: Get your church on.

           You sigh, forcing your shoulders down, though you can't get all the tension to leave you. You hate coming to Egbert all vulnerable and shit like this, but you're not sure you can get through the next three hours without something to bring down your blood pressure. "Sure. Lay it on me."  
           "Put the bunny back in the box."  
           It's like a blanket drops on you from nowhere, heavy and soft, soaking you through-and-through with warmth. The tension melts from your body, taking all coherent thought with it, and you lean forward to bump against the counter.  
           "Hey, woah. Stay standing, okay?" That voice goes straight to your core, hooking into your ribcage and pulling you upright even as you feel Egbert's presence at your side. You give him a soft smile, pleased to have a simple direction to follow. "Mm-hm." His hand is on your elbow, and you feel like every nerve in your body is crowding around that spot, trying to get closer to his touch. You stand there, content to feel the pulse of his heartbeat through his fingertips for as long as he needs you to.  
           "So, we're going to head back out there, okay?" You give a little nod, hoping he keeps talking. "You're going to walk in under your own power and sit down next to me, and you're going to feel very relaxed. You'll stand whenever I stand, bow your head when I bow my head, and sit when I sit. Anything anyone else says doesn't matter. You're just going to listen, but not really absorb any of it. You're just going to let the words wash over you like a cleansing rain, making you feel clean and refreshed, but you're not going to pay attention to anything anyone says but me. And when I put my hand on your shoulder and say 'wake up,' you'll go back to normal, not remembering any of the directions I gave you. Do you understand?"  
           "Yeah." He flashes a smile at you, and the warmth inside takes on a tingly aspect, like your body's not all quite there, but it's okay. Egbert will make sure nothing bad happens.  
           "Okay. Then I guess, here we go." He moves, hand falling from your arm, and you follow like you're on a tether, no thought to the movement, just needing to be near Egbert like your Bro needs to sew himself a mountain of plush rump. There are people moving around , but they're little more than grey shadows, fleeting figures at the edge of your vision leaving no impression. He sits, and you sit. He stands, and you stand. Somewhere in the vast expanse of out there, a guy drones on about something, the words running over your skin like a light breeze in summer and a peek of sunshine after a heavy rain all rolled into one. Sometimes Egbert brushes against you, his touch like liquid lightning, and you can't keep a huge smile from creeping onto your face.  
           You're not sure how long you're there, but you don't really mind. Some time passes, and then you're standing outside the church, Egbert's hand on your shoulder saying, "Wake up."

           "You wake up," you say. "I know it's easy to get lost in my dreamy eyes, but that's why I got these shades on. I'm all kinds of altruistic, protecting the public from myopic mesmerization."  
           He gives you a smile. "How do you feel?"  
           You shrug. "Good. Ground didn't open up and swallow me whole, so that's a plus. Not going to go again on my own, if that's what you're asking."  
           He shakes his head, something like wonder in his eyes, and the corner of your mouth tics down. He shouldn't be acting so surprised, it's not like you're—well, okay yeah, you're sort of a massive dick. And you did have a little bit of a freakout right before everything started. But you're cool now. Completely cool.  
           You guess, maybe, all you needed was Egbert at your side.

           Fuck, when did you get to be such a sap?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you have enjoyed what you've read so far! But you know those archive warnings? Yeah, those are going to start coming into play in the next few chapters. In fact, some very dark, triggering elements are going to start appearing. These may include, but are not limited to: Non-con, self-hatred, nightmares, abuse, suicide. Proceed with extreme caution.


	9. Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who missed the note at the end of chapter eight: some very dark, triggering elements are going to start appearing. These may include, but are not limited to: Non-con, self-hatred, nightmares, abuse, suicide. Proceed with extreme caution.

           You bound down the stairs with a stack of DVDs, swinging around the corner and almost bumping into Dave. He takes one look at your movies and says, " _Hell_ no."  
           You push past him, tossing your movies on the couch as you continue to the kitchen. "My house, my movies!" you call out over your shoulder.  
           He follows you, coming through the swinging doors as you take the popcorn out of the cabinet. "I don't think you're supposed to subject a guest in your home to torture. That's like, a violation of the Geneva convention or something."  
           You scoop a cupful of popcorn kernels into the popcorn maker, the only concession your father would allow when you insisted it was impractical to heat popcorn over the stove every time (seeing as no Egbert would be caught dead with a microwave in the kitchen). "My movies are not torture."  
           "Tell that to the poor POWs you're force-feeding images of sweaty—"  
           "Say _one more word_ about Nic Cage, and I will make you regret it."  
           Dave took a step back from John's glare, hands in the air. "Sorry man, didn't mean to dis your homeboy. I know you pop a boner every time his face comes on screen—"  
           "Dave!"  
           "—who am I to get in the way of true love—"  
           "Dave, I am _not_ a homosexual! Not for Nic Cage or _anyone_!"  
           "—or true lust, am I right?"  
           The popcorn started spilling over the top of the maker, cutting through the otherwise silent kitchen. Dave leaned against the counter, lording over you with his two extra inches of height and a condescending smirk.  
           "Dave. You are a guest in my house, so I am doing you the courtesy of one more warning. Do not. Make fun of. My movies."  
           "Wait, you're extending the blanket of protection to everyone now? Dude, that's like cutting off one of my limbs, what am I supposed to even talk about without being able to poke fun at your cinematic selection?"  
           You frown. You guess he has a point. But "I didn't mean—I just mean I don't like you always calling them—"  
           "But then I guess you're right, poor Matthew McConaugay could be getting jealous if you're always on Nic Cage's faggoty ass, playing with—"  
           He cut off, his smirk dropping abruptly when you slam him into the fridge, arm shoved against his throat. "I warned you bro," you say. "I warned you about those slurs."  
           "Egbert," he chokes out. "Lay off."  
           You back off, letting him breathe. He rubs at his throat, and this close, you can see his eyes through his shades. He looks scared.  
           That expression disappears when you say "Put the bunny back in the box."

==> Dave, enjoy some quality movies with Egbert.

           Quality movies? Like there's any such thing when it comes to Egbert. You managed to scrape through the last two without too much brain damage (mostly by not paying any attention—hell if you can even remember what you two were watching), but the next one is _National Treasure_. Sure, Nic Cage is pretty hot, but a pretty face will only get you hold up wait a second what? Since when is Nic Cage hot?  
           Your ears go red for some reason, and you sneak a glance over at Egbert on the other side of the couch to see if he notices. Nope, looks like you're all clear. So what was the deal with that stray thought? You're not gay, especially not for Nic Cage's grody mullet-sporting well-muscled physique, with eyes that just sort of saw right through okay stop right there.  
           You swallow, eyes flicking to Egbert again, who this time is staring at you. "You alright Dave?" he asks. You nod.  
           "Yeah, m'fine. Let's get this crapfest going already." He stares at you for another second before pointing the remote at the television and pressing play. You snag the bowl of popcorn from him, shoving handfuls in your mouth to cover up your confusion. But the popcorn isn't enough to cover up your reaction when Cage's face first appears onscreen.  
           It hits you like a punch to the gut, but a lot more warm and pleasant, and a _lot_ more confusing. Cage looks like a complete tool, overweight middle-aged man with the acting skills of an untrained orangutan, and about as hairy. But you see his face and a bolt of heat hits your chest, diving straight for your groin. Then he speaks, and _shit_ , things are getting a little uncomfortable down there.  
           You shift, trying not to draw any attention to yourself, but needing to relieve the pressure in your pants. This is not happening right now. There is absolutely no way that you are popping a boner over fucking _Nic Cage_.  
           Fuuuuck. Just thinking his name is making you flush, and you settle the bowl of popcorn in your lap more firmly, mentally begging Egbert not to look at you. But then that leaves you with nowhere to look except the tv, which is currently showing off Cage's handsome mug in a parka that should be ridiculous but just makes you tilt your hips up ever so slightly.  
           "Oh man," you glance at John then, seeing his wide eyes and fanboy smile, "I always forget how good he is in this."  
           His eyes slide over to you, and you feel like he's waiting for you to say something. "The only thing Nic Cage is good at," you say, hiding the sudden buzzing in your veins with a grimace, "is sucking cock." He scowls at you, but you barely notice between the sudden jump in your pulse and the twitch your dick gives under the bowl.  
           "I don't know," he says. "I think you're just jealous."  
           You grit your teeth, spitting out "Why should I be jealous of a piece of shit salad-tosser li-ahke-ahhhhhn" you clap a hand over your mouth, bending over and trying to get your breathing under control. Shit, there was absolutely no reason that you should feel like someone just started working your shaft just from that. When you straighten back up, John is staring at you. You've got to say something, divert suspicion somehow. "Maybe you're trying to distract from the raging h-hard-on you've got for Cage's fairy f-fffaahg" you shoot up, the aching need in your groin too intense to ignore. The bowl of popcorn tips over, spilling everywhere, but you hardly notice as you race up the stairs to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind you and flipping on the shower. In seconds your pants are down around your ankles, one hand wrapped around your cock, pumping rough and fast, but despite that performance downstairs, you just can't come. You'd think if someone as disgusting as Nic Cage—  
           A groan slips past your lips as the image of that sweaty idiot flares up in your mind, and your eyes open in horror. No. No way. You will _not_ suffer the indignity of jacking off to Nic Cage.  
           But after another ninety seconds of trying to finish, almost weeping with frustration and need, you give in, summoning up images of the guy you normally think of as nothing more than comedic cannon-fodder. Something inside you loosens, and it's like your whole body is overflowing with pleasure, like someone slipped you a pill and you're floating twenty feet off the ground in a delirious haze, like everything you've ever wanted and more is coming true right now and fuck if you're not going to Disneyland too and your hips arch as you bring a second hand around your length mouth dropping open in a hoarse yell that sounds suspiciously like " _Nic_!" as you come, spilling all over Egbert's shower curtain and one of his walls, heaving a sigh as you crash to your knees. You feel suddenly empty, spent, and even though you know you need to clean yourself up, you know you need to get back downstairs to salvage any shred of dignity you have left in this situation, you just…can't…keep your eyes…open.

==> John, puzzle over your friend's abrupt disappearance.

           There's nothing to puzzle over. You know exactly why Dave left. You know you should probably feel bad, but…you did warn him, after all.  
           At first you'd just made him sit there and watch, like with church yesterday, and that had been nice! He didn't hog the blankets, and you got the popcorn and snacks all to yourself, but after a two movies, that got kind of boring. You wanted your friend back! But he also needed to be taught a lesson. When you saw what the next movie on your docket was, you knew exactly what that lesson should be.  
           A grin slides across your face as you imagine him struggling to understand why he suddenly found Nic Cage so attractive, why he couldn't keep himself from thinking about the ruggedly handsome actor. He probably pulled down his pants as soon as he got out of sight, and you know—because you made it so—that he wouldn't be able to finish unless it was to Nic Cage. You smile viciously to yourself, hands tights on the couch as you imagine Dave's confusion and horror at finding himself behaving more and more like a homosexual the more he accused others of being that way. It felt like nothing short of justice.  
           You pull yourself up from the couch, unable to keep a swagger from your step as you climb the stairs. You'd told Dave to fall asleep afterwards, not knowing how badly he'd freak out and wanting to be able to get to him before he did anything stupid. But when you top the stairs and pause outside the bathroom door, you hear faint sounds of movement over the running shower, and blush when you realize he's still going at it. Oh. You guess you'll just, wait for him then?  
           There's a yell, and then a thump like something heavy hit the floor. Opening the door, you find Dave slumped against the bathtub and the wall, pants around his ankles and limp cock in his hands, cum sliding down the outside of the shower curtain to plunk on his head, one drop at a time. You swallow, throat suddenly tight, eyes arrested by the sight. You didn't really think this all the way through. Sure, it was really hot hilarious to make Dave do this, but now you had an unconscious, messy Dave in an equally messy bathroom, and Dad would be home in another hour. Cleaning Dave up in time was going to be a major chore. Unless…could you make _him_ clean up?  
           You smile, relieved at the simple solution, squatting down next to your friend and putting one hand on his shoulder. The second his eyes started to flutter open, you said, "Put the bunny back in the box," and he relaxed once more, this time open to instruction.

==> Dave: Clean yourself up.

           "Dave?" Egbert. You open your eyes to look at him, a smile coming to your face automatically. You remember that you're in the bathroom, that you'd been really worried that he'd know what you were doing, but somehow that doesn't seem to matter now. All that matters is listening to Egbert. All that matters is making him happy.  
           "I need you to clean yourself up," he says, and it's then that you realize there's something wet in your hair, getting stiff and sticky as you sit here. You look up, and a drop of the stuff splashes on your face, hitting your right cheek just below your shades. "And the bathroom," Egbert says. "I need you to clean all this stuff up, before my dad gets home." You grin and nod in acknowledgement, launching to your feet and nearly tripping over yourself when you try to take a step and realize your pants are down around your ankles. Egbert catches you, and you find yourself not really minding that you tripped, after all. But you're still not really sure how you're supposed to clean yourself up. You look at Egbert, hoping for more direction, but he's just staring at you with those big blue eyes, working his lip between his teeth, and you guess he wants you to figure it out on your own. Right. You can do that.  
           You wipe at your cheek to get rid of the stuff that dripped on it, realizing as you do that it's cum. And now it's all over your hand. So far this cleaning project isn't going very well. Not knowing what else to do and wanting to follow Egbert's directions, you lick your hand clean.  
           Egbert makes a noise and you look at him as you swipe your tongue up your thumb, getting the last bit of the cum. He looks a little unhappy, and a plunk from behind you reminds you that there are more surfaces to be cleaned. Something in the way-back reaches of your mind says _don't you fucking dare lick that shower curtain do you even know where it's been this is a house of bachelors there's decades of grunge on that shitty piece of plastic you could get the clap just from standing near it_ , so instead you kick off your shoes and step out of your pants to make movement easier, grab handfuls of tissue from the toilet paper roll, and get to work.  
           There's not actually much to clean up. A couple of swipes takes care of the curtain and the wall, leaving you with a handful of dirty tissue and a headful of drying mess. Egbert takes the tissue out of your hand, tossing them in one of those tiny bathroom garbage bins, and says, "Now take a shower." You hop in to the still running water, poking your head back out when Egbert yelps, wondering if he has any follow-up instructions.

==> So how's this whole make Dave clean himself up thing going for you?

           You haven't tried to get Dave to do anything very complicated while in trance before now, and you're starting to realize why stage hypnotists don't either. It's best to set up a trigger, or else give them one instruction to follow when they're awake but otherwise behave normally, because even if Dave is really pliable like this, he is, is, infuriating, dumb, way too literal, just, _not Dave_.  
           When he licked his hand clean? _Jesus_. Dave wouldn't have done that for any level of irony  but you made him do it, he did it because of you, and there is some thrill in that. You couldn't stop yourself from flushing red as your knees got weak in embarrassment for him, or making a noise of arousal surprise. Then he got down to business actually wiping things up with toilet paper, and you thought you could breathe a sigh of relief, but nope, then he hops in the shower, still half-dressed! When he pokes his head back out, sunglasses flecked with droplets of water, looking your way, you sigh and decide there's nothing for it. Shucking off your own clothes, you step into the shower with him.  
           Wrestling his shirt off isn't too hard, and you've got to admit, you appreciate the view. This is the first time you've seen any great expanse of skin on his part since Friday's failed strip, and Dave is just plain nice to look at. (Though you note with a drop of disappointment that shit, he _is_ bigger than you. Not by much though! By so little you should be called even, actually. Yeah. Totally on par with your best bro. Not that it matters! Because it totally doesn't matter at all. Not. At. All.) You slip off his sunglasses to reveal his eyes (which you _have_ seen since Friday, he seemed a lot more willing to take off the shades when you didn't freak out or comment on the color the "first time" he removed them), fumbling outside the curtain to set them on the toilet's water tank. Then you shove him under the water and get to scrubbing.

==> Dave: Enjoying yourself?

           You are, actually! The water feels good sluicing down your skin, and Egbert's fingers rubbing your scalp make you feel tingly and warm all over. You sway slightly on your feet until he tells you to straighten up, which you do, because of course doing what Egbert wants you to is the most important thing you could possibly do. He tells you to turn around, and you do so, happy to comply, tilting your head back to let the rinsed-out shampoo run down your back. Then there are hands on your chest, and you crack your eyes open to see Egbert running soapy hands across your skin. "Sorry," he mutters. "Always forget to keep a washcloth in here." You watch him, content as he finishes your chest and kneels down to wash off your legs, muttering to himself some more about "might as well," and "thorough job." He stands back up after a while, not saying anything for a while. You look at him, waiting for direction, but he's staring down at somewhere just below your stomach, his face going red.  
           "Dammit," he says, and then taking another glob of the men's body wash he's been using, he starts washing your genitals.  
           "Hmmrmmm." You arch into him, feeling good, but he stops as soon as you make a noise, pausing to look up at you. "Stay still," he says, and then his hand are on your cock again, rubbing soap down the length and it feels fantastic but you're not supposed to move so you just stand there, toes curling in the quarter-inch of warm water while you watch John cup your balls, slicking them too with soap before snatching his hands back, breathing rough and face red. He sees your smile and scowls.  
           "This hardly seems fair," he says. "This was supposed to be your punishment, and now I'm stuck cleaning you up." His words remind you that, oh yes, you're supposed to be cleaning, so you take Egbert's hands in yours, taking the last of the suds in his palms so that you can return the favor, running your hands through his hair and kneading his scalp. He stiffens at first, then relaxes, murmuring "Yeah, I guess this is fair." You continue washing his hair from the front, not wanting to turn him around, and when you run out of soap, he squeezes more spring-fresh body wash into your hands so you can work on his chest and arms. You mirror his actions from earlier, sinking down to wash his legs, though you don't bother to rise before you start washing his cock, hands quick and efficient as you slide your fingers around him. Then you move to rise, but a hand on your head keeps you down. You look up, and John is looking at you, biting his lip, eyes looming bright in the steam of the shower. "I think," he starts, but then chokes, voice cracking. You wait patiently for him to continue. "I think you need to clean it," he finally gets out, "with your mouth."  
           You blink up at him, and some part of your brain says _hold up a second mouths aren't clean that's not cleaning what is he even asking you Dave Strider does not put his lips around any man's junk for any reason this isn't a thing bros do why is Egbert even asking you this this is wrong don't do this no no no no_ but then John says, "Dave, I need you to clean my…my stuff. With your mouth," and you see no reason not to comply.  
           You give him a lick, and he shudders, fingers tangling in your wet hair. Another lick earns you a drawn out moan, and when you put your mouth around him, tongue moving about in a swishing motion, he arches into you, hand pushing you roughly down, forcing you to take more of him in your mouth. He hisses out a " _Yess_ ," above you, and you manage to keep from choking, barely. You suck at him, swallowing around his cock in your mouth and if it seems like that sentence should make you feel weird, you forget about it when he says "Dave, _Dave_ ," warmth bubbling up in your chest like home, like trust, like belonging, so you swallow again and with a cry he pushes you roughly away, coming on shaking legs as you sprawl in the base of the bathtub.  
           He sinks down to sit on the edge of the bathtub, almost taking the shower curtain down with him. You idly cup handfuls of water and splash them over his cum on the wall, washing it away along with everything else. Then you sit with him in silence, skin long since gone pruny in what is possibly the longest shower of your life.  
           "Get out," he says after a while, and you stand, stepping out of the shower dripping wet. "Find a towel," he says, "And dry yourself off. Then get dressed—in something clean—and wait for me on the couch downstairs."  
           You do as he says, grabbing the towel off the rack next to the shower and rubbing yourself down before heading out the door to his room in search of some clean clothes, already looking forward to the next time you get to make John happy.

==> John: Congratulate self on a job well done.

           You'd…rather not. You'd rather not think about what just happened at all, actually. It had seemed like a natural extension of washing Dave, for him to wash you. And then you had thought, maybe he hadn't learned his lesson, about calling people gay. Maybe you needed to, to teach him some more.  
           It had seemed like pretty good reasoning when his lips were wrapped around the head of your cock, but when he smiled up at you from the basin of the tub, something twisted inside you. The thing is, you didn't feel sick, or bad, or wrong. When Dave looked up at you with his big red eyes, droplets of water making his incongruously dark eyelashes stick together in clumps against his skin, looking like he wanted nothing more in the world than to please you, it made you glad, it made you hot, hotter than you were just a second ago, which was pretty impressive since just a second ago you were coming harder than you ever had before in your life. And that, you knew, was bad. Feeling good about manipulating your friend, about having power over him and taking advantage of that power…that was wrong. But it didn't stop you from wanting to do it again.  
           So, no. No, you'd rather not think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely [renaris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Renaris/pseuds/Renaris) drew some [nsfw art](http://renaris.tumblr.com/post/18189018179/he-stiffens-at-first-then-relaxes-murmuring) for this scene 0w0


	10. Monday Night

Dave: Wake up.

           Your eyes crack open, vision blurry and dark. There's light, coming and going, and something warm beneath you, rising and falling with a regularity that seems familiar. Safe. You struggle to sit up, and hear someone murmur above you, an arm sliding around your back possessively, keeping you down. That's when you realize that you've woken up slowly, not starting or attacking anyone, and you know, without thinking about it, that it's Egbert's arm around you, Egbert making you feel safe enough to not have to guard against attack. But you're still not sure how you got here.  
           The flickering lights resolve themselves into a DVD menu onscreen, cycling through the same clips of _National Treasure_ again and again, slack-jawed Nic Cage capering ab  
           _Nic Cage_.  
           You bolt up, ignoring John's mumbled protests. You groan, putting your head in your hands. Shit, what the _hell_ was that about? A wet dream about Nic Cage? What the fuck is wrong with you? You're not gay. You're not. _You are not gay_.   
           John shifts behind you, one hand drifting over yours. You jerk back, face going red. No. _No_. There's was no reason to flush from John touching your hand. You were bros, watching a movie together. Bros cuddle. Bros totally cuddle. It wasn't anything—  
           An image swims up in your mind, you, kneeling before John, his cock in your mouth, hand in your hair, _fucking_ your _mouth_ , and you were letting—no, you weren't _letting_ him, just tolerating it, you were _enjoying_ it, licking, sucking, like the dirty fucking fag you were, couldn't get enough, couldn't help yourself fuck no no no no no  
           You launch yourself up from the sofa, shoving your shades up to press the heels of your palms to your eyes. No. You were not—even if you were—but you're not—you're _not_ gay. But even if you were, you'd never ruin things with your best bro by being gay for _him_. You shouldn't be thinking about him, or Nic Cage, or fucking anyone like that with a pair of meatsacks between their legs. But you couldn't shake the images from your dreams. You turned to go into the kitchen, needing to cool off but not wanting to go upstairs to the bathroom—it felt somehow dirty and wrong—but before you could get there, the kitchen doors swung open, Mr. Egbert standing outlined in light streaming from the kitchen.  
           "Oh!" he said. "You're up." He greeted you with a warm smile; it was a struggle to keep your poker face. "Is John…?" but even as he asked, you heard John sitting up on the couch behind you, calling out a "Hey dad! Did I fall asleep? Heheh, sorry."  
           You turned to look at him, and the smile he flashes you is so open and big, you can't stand it. You can't stand the thought that you were thinking of him like you were, like you've ruined him, somehow tainted him. So you push past Egbert Sr. and cross the kitchen in a rush, through the utility room and in their backyard before they can even process your "I'm going to get some air."

==> John: What just happened?

           You're not…actually sure?   
           You'd thought your plan was foolproof. By the time you'd gotten dressed and gone to your room, you knew your dad was going to be home any minute. So you figured your best bet was to make Dave think he'd fallen asleep and, just to divert suspicion, pretend to be asleep too. He'd think the thing with Nic Cage was just a dream, and the thing with you? Well, he wasn't supposed to remember that even if you wanted him to, but if he did, that'd be just a dream too.  
           Your dad came in not a minute after you lay down. You felt him hovering over the two of you; it was a struggle to keep pretending and not leap out at him with a surprise prank. But he moved on to the kitchen, and you whispered the word in Dave's ear that meant he was supposed to wake up slowly, feeling safe and relaxed.   
           It was weird, feeling him wake up against you. Some part of you didn't want to let him go, and you put an arm around him to try to make him stay. Warmth blossomed in your chest when he allowed it, and you could feel a smile on your lips—it made you feel pretty nice to know how much Dave trusted you! And he wasn't even under or anything. He just trusted you normally. He probably liked doing things for you. If you told him about everything that had happened, he'd probably be okay with it, because he trusted you so much. He might even already know, and just wasn't saying anything! He—  
           Dave pulled away quickly, sitting up on the couch. You couldn't stop a "no" from escaping, but you don't think he noticed. You shifted, trying to casually touch him, but he pulled away, before standing up and leaving you altogether. You weren't sure where he was going, and were debating whether or not you should pretend to wake up now when you heard your dad say, "Oh! You're up. Is John—" you sat up and twisted around, almost falling off the couch in your efforts, before directing a smile his way. "Hey dad! Did I fall asleep? Heheheh, sorry."  
           Dave was standing right next to him, and you were just so happy to see him, normal-looking, not freaking out, no lasting damage, that your smile stretched until your face ached. And then he was gone, mumbling something as he dodged around your dad, the sound of the side door opening and closing a moment later letting you know that he'd gone outside.  
           You dad looked at you, and you're not sure what he saw, but his expression got soft, and he came around to sit next to you on the couch. "How are you doing, son?"  
           "Fine." It sounded forlorn, even to you, so you forced your mouth back into a smile. "Really."  
           He patted your knee. "I know it's hard when you care about someone, and you want to do whatever you can to be close to them. But you have to think about what you want, and not just rush into things."  
           Your face fell. "What do you mean?"  
           He put his hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently. "Before the two of you get into anything too serious, you have to make sure that you mean to Dave what he means to you. Do you understand?"  
           You nod, though you're not really sure. You just want to follow Dave and make sure he's okay.   
           He stood up then, heading down the hall to his study. "How about I order a pizza for you boys tonight?"  
           You flash him a grin. "Sure! I'm going to, uhm, go talk to Dave now."  
           He nodded. "I just want you to know that I am so proud of you."  
           "Yeah." You don't really pay attention, considering how often he says that. Besides, you've got an idea.


	11. Tuesday

           Egbert is standing in front of you, but there's something off about his smile, just a little too big, eyes just a little too bright. "Trust me," he says, and something slithers in your gut, so you turn around, but then there you are, that's you, but the colors are all wrong and neon-glazed and you say "Trust me," and you take a step back, but then there's Egbert behind you, hair gone platinum blonde and Bro's glasses on his nose, wrapping his arms around your chest to whisper in your ear, "Trust me," and you can't help it, you run. You run, and then you're falling and twisting and running some more, and there's sand under your bare feet and where are your clothes, and a wave is chasing you up the beach and no matter how fast you run you don't seem to go anywhere. It swamps you, pulling you deepdeep under, and there are sharks with square-framed glasses in the water, and they circlecirclecircle and laugh "Trust me, trust me." You burst through the ocean except that it's viscous and thick, sucking in air and everything burns and everything hurts and then you're going downdowndowndown and there's Egbert but he's got gills and fins and monochrome skin and his mouth is full of razor sharp teeth and he says "Trust me," the words bubbling out of his mouth and then his mouth is against yours and it tastes sweet, it tastes like life, there's air pumping into your lungs and you twine your legs with his and you feel your dick swell and you don't like it but you have to breathe, you can't push away. Then the air in your mouth turns bitter and heavy and you push at him, but you can feel it filling your lungs, bubbling out of your mouth, black tar that weighs you down pulls you down and Egbert hovers over you with that stupidumb smile and screams "Trust me," but he's disappearing as you sink with lead in your lungs and you can't breathe and everything hurts and then there's something crawling out of your mouth, there's a _tentacle_ crawling out of your _mouth_ and it's black and slimy and slick and there are more, roving over your skin, wrapping around your wrists and slithering around your legs and they all have tiny little mouths full of sharp teeth crooning "Trustmetrustmetrustme." Then those tiny teeth bite down and tear into your flesh and you'd scream if you could but they're inside you, they're coming out of you and all you can do is thrashthrashthrashthrash as they rip you up and there's blood and pain and dark and two slim tendrils working themselves around your cock, quick and slick working a rhythm like you work a rhyme making you claw at your skin except every surface is covered in monstrosities and you can't fathom these atrocities but they're you they're him they're coming out of you, at you, eyes too blue to be true and they singsingsingsingsing in your blood flying everywhere through the air that you're theirstheirstheirstheirs because they're the heir that cares cares about your pathetic crass ass that no one else could save no would else will save Dave as he sinks to his watery washed-out grave and no one cares what Dave craves as he writhes in the darkness trying to stave off Dave tries to be brave Dave but he's still afraid Dave still Dave Dave Dave  
           " _Dave!_ "

           You jolt awake, thrashing wildly, heart beating too fast and breath coming in shallow gasps. Egbert is crouched at the corner of the mattress, looking at you warily, cradling his arm. You must have hit him, and you'd apologize, but it feels like you can't get enough air in your lungs, so you just end up hunched over, one hand braced against his bed, trying to make everything stop spinning.  
           There's a hand on your back, and you flinch, looking up to find Egbert has come over to crouch beside you, looking at you through those square-rimmed glasses, and you feel bad, but you can't help shuddering at the sight. "Hey man," he says, putting a hand on your back again, rubbing in little circles. "Relax."  
           Somehow that does the trick, and you blow out a breath, things settling closer to normal, though you can't seem to stop yourself from clutching the front of his shirt and burying your face in his shoulder for a minute. "Don't worry," he says over your head. "You can relax," and your shoulders ease down a little more, feeling a little better. "Trust me."

==> John: Turn into a giant tentacle monster.

           What? No! You'd never do that. That doesn't even make sense really?? But Dave shudders against you again, so you tell him to relax and forget the dream, and that finally fixes things. Gosh, who knew you'd be using your new powers so soon! And for a totally good cause, too. Heheh.  
           Dave gathers up his things to head to the bathroom and take a shower, and you smile after him, glad you put your new idea into motion already. You really liked having Dave do what you told him to, but it always took so much preparation! Or else he was too out of it to really be _your_ Dave and he is yours, completely, wholly, body mind and soul. So last night, before the two of you went to sleep, you put him under, super deep to make sure it would stick, and told him to do whatever you ordered him to! He only had to follow your orders, and only if it was actually an order that you said out loud, not implied or something he thought you wanted. Other than that, he'd be completely normal! He would just trust you more.  
           Today was going to be so much _fun_.

==> Dave: trust Egbert.

           Sure, no problem. There's not really anyone you trust more, even yourself. Just look at this morning, when you were all wigging out, totally uncool, about some stupid dream you can't even remember now, and Egbert was there to bring you back down to earth, which strikes you as pretty ironic now that you think about it, the space cadet air head bringing you back to earth, but what else can you expect from a Strider except grade-a irony?  
           When you step out of the bathroom, Egbert's waiting for his turn, and you want to tell him he should've saved some water and just hopped in with you, but that makes you think of your dream yesterday on the couch, and you end up not saying anything at all. You've already got a ridiculous lead on him in one-upmanship anyway, what's a single potential point lost? You slip past him, making it to the stairs without exchanging any words when he calls out to you to make breakfast for him, and you figure why not, it's the least you can do for the kid, right?  
           You're not really sure about the set-up of his kitchen, or how everything works, but you manage to sling some bacon in a pan and some bread in a toaster. The eggs come out a rubbery mess, but you take a bite anyway and deem the edible, and if Egbert's got any problem when he comes down the stairs with tousled wet hair he doesn't say anything, just asks you to pass the pepper. You get up and hand him the pepper that was only a foot from his hand, making an ironic show of bowing and fawning at his feet that makes him laugh. God, you love to hear that laugh. You'd do anything to hear it. Hell, you'd just do anything for him period.

==> John: Have your cake and eat it too.

           Cake? Ugh, no thanks. You much prefer the bacon, eggs, and toast Dave serves you. Even if it's not really as good as what you could have done yourself, somehow knowing that you made Dave make you breakfast makes it taste better than anything else in the world.

           It's the little things like that that delight you all day, making Dave hand you things that are closer to you than him, making him take off his sunglasses or put on an ironic fashion show, making him play the Trisha Poe to your rough-and-tumble Cameron Poe as you shove the grubby bunny he gave you three years ago at him and he puts a hand to his forehead, exclaiming that he has a case of the vapors. He does everything you tell him to, but the way that he does it is just so _Dave_ that you want to laugh just looking at him. It's like every idea you give him he thinks is his own, and that's  heady awesome! You wish Dave was like this all the time, and then you giggle to yourself, thinking, why can't he be?

           Looking back later, you'd realize that things had been heading that way all along. But at the time, you thought it was just a simple question. Really!  
           "How do you kiss?"  
           Dave paused in the middle of untying his hair from the pigtails he'd put it in with rubber bands, looking at you with a blank expression. You spun around in your computer chair to face him fully, drumming your fingers on the armrests as you waggle your eyebrows nervously. "Well?"  
           He works the pigtail out, shaking his hair loose. It had been a silly thing to tell him to do anyway; he looks much better like this. "Line your faces up and mash your lips together. Even you can figure that out."  
           You roll your eyes, pushing off to jump onto the bed next to him, the mattress squeaking under your antics. "I know _that_ , I mean, like. How."  
           He tilts his head, looking at you, and you're tempted to tell him to smile, just to break the tension, but you don't. "The internet has a few million gigabytes of educational material for the low low price of your dignity. What are you asking me for?"  
           You blush, looking down and picking at your comforter. "Ts'not the same. Watching people do stuff and then doing it yourself is different." You look up, meeting his eyes and biting your lip. "I just, don't want to look like some stupid kid the first time I kiss someone. And…you're better at this stuff than me."  
           "You've never kissed anyone before." His voice is flat, more statement than question, but you nod anyway, ears going red. "Not yet, anyway."  
           "And you want me to…?"  
           "Show me." He twitches, and you realize that sounded like an order. "Please." He relaxes again. "I don't think that's a good idea, dude. It'll happen when it happens. You'll figure things out quick enough."  
           You shake your head, scooting closer. "But if I'm bad, nobody's gonna want to kiss me again. I have to be good at it the first time."  
           He shakes his head. "No deal."  
           Your eyes scrunch up as you frown. He's not allowed to turn you down. "Show me," you say again, and he shifts, uncomfortable. "I'm ordering you to show me," you say more firmly, and then his lips are on yours, and your eyes fly wide in shock.  
           You shove him off, scrambling back to the edge of the mattress. He looks hurt and confused, and you bring a hand to your mouth, swallowing. That…wasn't what you'd meant. You figured he could coach you, and maybe you could practice on Liv Tyler, like you normally did. But maybe this was actually a better idea?  
           He looks down. "Shit, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He stands up, turning toward the door. "I'll just…leave. I'm sorry."  
           "Wait!" He halts in place, turning to face you, even though you can see from his face that he wants to be gone. "Maybe…we should try that again."  
           His expression drops again, going blank. "What."  
           You scoot to the edge of the bed, swinging your legs over the edge. "Try it again."

==> Dave: Do what he says.

           You close the distance between you and Egbert, feeling like you're fighting every step of the way. You're not sure if you're fighting to get closer to him or fighting not to, though. You felt awful when he pushed you off, like you'd done something terrible—it wasn't even like, you _had_. You had taken advantage of your best friend and stolen his first kiss, and now you were taking advantage of him some more because he was too dumb to know that this wasn't something bros did. It was something gay dudes did. And you were gay. You must be. That's the only explanation you can think of for why you pressed one knee against the edge of the mattress, leaning in to bring your lips together once more.  
           Egbert doesn't draw back this time, squeezing his eyes together too tight, lips white. You know it's wrong, but you want him to relax, to feel good about this, so you slip one hand around into his hair, lips parting for a second as your fingers tangle in his locks. He loosens a little, and you pull back as his eyes flutter open, too blue, too close. You break away.  
           "Shit," you say again. "I'm sorry." It doesn't feel adequate, but then his hand is on your wrist, and you can't run away like you want to.  
           "Hey," he says, and your stomach flops. "It's okay." You turn to look at him, and fuck, he's smiling that way he does, so happy and open and you can't ruin that, can't ruin him. "Maybe we should do that a few more times," he says. You feel like you're going to throw up.  
           "No," you say, voice harsh, and his face falls like you just kicked his puppy.  
           "Do it again," he says, and you lean in halfway before you catch yourself, wrenching your head to the side. What the fuck is wrong with you? Your head starts to pound.  
           You're startled when he grabs the front of your shirt, yanking you down. "Do it again," You mash your lips against his for a second before pulling back, gasping. You don't want to do this.  
           You must've said that out loud, because he looks at you funny and says, "Why?"  
           You shake your head. "It's wrong," you say. "Don't want to ruin you." He laughs at that, though you can't see what he'd possibly find so funny about this. "Trust me," he says, and your stomach roils, "you're not doing anything I don't want you to." His words make you feel funny, like you're missing something here, and that's never a comfortable feeling, having Egbert be one-up on you, so you pull away again. You'll take a walk, clear you head. Maybe call Bro, that usually grounded you. You just had to get out of here for a while, just  
           "Put the bunny back in the box," John says, and whatever you'd been thinking about a second ago scatters as a warm and tingly feeling spreads from your middle to the rest of your body. _It's okay_ , a voice says, soft and close. _You can relax.  
           Trust me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Trust Me" was my initial chapter title for this, but I didn't want readers to know that there was going to be a break from the normal day-to-day routine until it actually happened.
> 
> Also there's more [art](http://davenoinceststrider.tumblr.com/post/15609007317/so-sleep-tight-is-a-pretty-cool-fic)!!  
> 


	12. Break

==> Dave: Be a good boy.

           You open your eyes, noting that you're stripped down to your boxers, but you don't really care. Egbert is on the bed in front of you (also down to his boxers), sitting on the edge with his feet on the ground, and you know that you're supposed to be teaching him right now. What you're supposed to be teaching him is a little less clear, but you know that he wants this, and giving John what he wants, making him feel good, is the most important thing you could possibly be doing. With that in mind, you take a step up to him, bending down and tilting your head as one hand slides around his, fingers resting at the base of his skull. You stop just a hairsbreadth before his lips, making him come to you, smirking because as terrible of a movie as _Hitch_ was, that one actually works. He closes the distance between you both, lips dry and warm on yours, and when you open your mouth, taking his bottom lip lightly between yours and sucking, he makes a little noise, hands clutching at the empty air where your shirt should be. You pull back, smiling, and he looks up at you with a shy grin, and something goes sour in the pit of your stomach.  
           _He wants this_ , a voice says in the back of your head. _You do too_. You're not sure how true that is, but Egbert is scooting back, making room for you to join him on the bed, so you oblige, a quick "Ready to get your _Brokeback_ on?" the only quip you can come up with when your head feels fuzzed over with velvet. He rolls his eyes, laughing and calling you a dork, and you straddle his hips, pushing him to lie flat on his back, keeping one hand on his chest and the other on the mattress next to his head as you bring you mouth to the edge of his collarbone and suck. He hisses a sharp intake of breath, and you trail upward, planting kisses and ghosting teeth over flesh until you reach where his neck and shoulders meet and bite down, lips squeaking against skin as you nip at him lightly in between sucking hard, moving the hand on his chest to trail nails lightly over skin to his nipple, pinching him and rolling the nub of flesh in between in your fingers. He whimpers, one hand resting on your hip as the other clutches at the sheets, and you smirk. Alright then, nipples equal erogenous zone. Good thing too, you knew a lot of dudes didn't really get off on that, and it would have seriously hampered your ability to turn Egbert into a gibbering puddle.   
           That reminds you, though, that he's not a chick, is, in fact, Egbert, your best bro, and you hesitate, pulling back. He opens his eyes when you do, lips pursing in a pout as he says, "Don't stop now." So you do what you'd do with a chick, scooting down the length of his body until you can put your mouth on his unoccupied nipple, still playing with the free one with your other hand. You flick them rapidly, one with your tongue and the other with your finger, and he fucking moans, arching his hips up into your stomach and oh hello there John's raging boner. You'd pull back again, but he's saying "Don't stop, don't stop," like some whorish twenty-something in a cheap porno, and your dick twinges a little as you remember that nothing feels as good as making John feel good. So you move your mouth over to his right nipple and send your hand down south, cupping his erection and hoping for the best. This is sort of new territory for you here.  
           Apparently you're doing a good enough job, because he arches again, letting loose a throaty " _Daave_ ," and yup, lil' Strider is definitely responding to that. His hands are on the move now, one arm awkwardly cocked out to thread his fingers in your hair, pulling lightly, and damned if it doesn't feel good. The other is on your back, slipping down until it grabs a big handful of your ass and squeezes. Decidedly less sexy than the hair thing, and you pull up, lips popping wetly as you release his nipple to give him a Look. He giggles like you caught him getting into the asscookie jar, and moves his other hand down to join the first and manhandle your snickerdoodles. "Dude," you say. "Not cool." You shift, lining your bodies up so you can go in for another kiss which unfortunately gives him a better grip on your ass, but if Egbert's happy then you're happy, you guess. He opens his mouth before you get there, thrusting his tongue into your mouth, all sloppy enthusiasm and no grace. Your tongue darts into his mouth in response, flicking the roof of his mouth, his teeth, his tongue, and he starts grinding into you, cocks sliding against thin fabric and jesus this is weird what the fuck are you _doing_.  
           You pull back for what feels like the hundredth time, eyeing John hard and trying to make the sudden pounding in your head go away.  
           "Enjoy yourself," he says, and your lips part as your eyes close, inhaling softly, head tilting back as pleasure starts at the base of your spine and curls its way upwards, reaching your head and blanketing everything in velvety warm softness. With your eyes still closed, you feel Egbert's hands on your waist for a second before he says, "My turn," and flips you over, rolling both of you so that he's on top, straddling your hips like you were doing to him a moment ago. Your hands are on the bed on either side of your head, and you start to lift them, wanting to make Egbert feel good, but then he says "Don't move," and your hands fall limp as he rocks experimentally in place, grinding his hips down on yours just a little too hard, and water springs to your eyes unbidden, but you can't seem to work your jaw open to tell him to lay off. His mouth is hanging open in a wide grin, but he frowns when he looks down at you and sees you frozen, expressionless. "You can talk," he says, and you let out a gust of breath you weren't really holding, uneasily wondering why you even needed his permission to speak. He leans down in a mirror of your earlier position over him, breath moist on your ear as he repeats, "Enjoy yourself," and you feel another spike of pleasure, this time wrapping around your cock and pumping oh wait no that's Egbert's hand. When did he slip his hand under your boxers?   
           You find that you really don't care as he bites at your ear, nipping lightly while his hand goes up and down, and fuck if you don't want to arch into him so badly, but you _can't fucking move_. You whine, face heating as you're unable to stop the needy, high-pitched sound, and he stops to look at you, grinning like he's the devil and the string on your fiddle just snapped. "I don't know why you're just lying there," he says, leaning down again. "You can move anytime you want." Then he mouths your neck, sucking like he was born for it, and you snarl out a "Fuck you," as your hands dart for his hips, fingers digging into his waist as you pull him down hard, trapping his hand between the two of you and rocking up. He gives a little hum before biting down on your neck and fuck that hurts, but he says "Like it" and you can't tell if he's asking or commanding but it doesn't matter because suddenly it feels too fucking good for words. "Harder," you rasp out, and you can feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin before he pulls back. You curse, saying "Jesus Egbert, the point here is to do what your partner asks you to, not drive them up the fucking wall with your cockamamie cocktease antics."  
           He laughs as he wriggles some more, purposeless movement still making you ache. "You said cockamamie."   
           "You're insane, you know that? You've got Dave Strider at your mercy and you're giggling at word-choice." But your words feel flat. You're the one who's supposed to be teaching here. You're in control. So why do you know that what you said is true, that you're the one at his mercy?  
           "Egbert—" he cuts you off with two fingers on your lips. "Shhh," he says. "I don't want anything to come out of your mouth that isn't a moan, mewl, whine, or otherwise sexy noise." He pauses, then adds, "Or my name."  
           Well. There isn't much you can say to that, so you open your mouth instead and suck on his fingers, working your tongue around them, and his eyes go wide as he swallows. "Oh," he says, rocking a little against you. He eyes dart down, then back up to you, and his face breaks out in a mischievous smile.  
           Fuck.  
           He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, swinging a leg over you so that he's no longer straddling you, and you start to sit up, but he waggles a finger at you and you sink back down, not wanting him to order you for some reason. His fingers slip under the edge of your waistband, and then he's pulling them down, which you'd protest, but shit, you can't seem to get any words out of your mouth, and end up making a breathy whine instead. He finishes pulling off your boxers, then slips out of his, and you freeze.   
           John is naked.  
           You are naked.  
           John and you are naked.   
           You squeak, and he laughs, looking at you with something like fierceness, something like possession, and you wish you could tell him to stop, but all that comes out is a low moan. He bites his lip, then ducks away from you with a "Stay there," going to his nightstand to pull out a bottle of lotion. He pours a dollop on his hand, and your eyes go wide. Then his face suddenly falls. "Shit," he says. "I forgot about condoms." He tilts his head, looking at you. "Does it matter, since you can't get pregnant?"  
           You swallow, then nod, deliberate and slow, making sure he's watching. He sighs. "I don't suppose you have any, Mr. Coolkid?"   
           You hesitate, eyes going to your luggage next to his closet without you really telling them to. His eyebrows go up, but he absently wipes his hands on your legs to get the lotion off before rifling through your things. His touch makes you twitch, heat pooling in your groin again, and you're torn between touching yourself and thinking unsexy thoughts. You'd just about decided that touching yourself was perfectly okay and Not Weird when John popped back up from his crouch with a surprised, "Oh!" You look at him, and he's got that whole box of fucking Trojans in his hands. You guess it's just as well that you can't say anything right now, because you're pretty sure that "Your dad gave them to me" would go over about as smoothly as a dungeon-master's pimply ass. But when he hands you a little circle of slippery latex and says, "Put this on me," you think yeah, the benefits of speaking are definitely outweighing the negatives here. But you put it on anyway.  
           John looks down at himself, poking hesitantly, and you roll your eyes, shifting. He catches sight of you again and smiles that same smile as before, and something in your stomach drops. "You're going to like this," he says, picking up the bottle of lotion again, and, hey, what were you worried for? He's right, you're definitely going to like thiiiiiioh _shit_ fuck what is he _doing_  
           John is squeezing lotion directly on your cock, and you whimper, trying to wriggle away. "Stop that," he says. "Flip around." You do as he says, getting on your hands and knees, biting your lip to keep from saying anything which is stupid because you haven't been able to say anything for the last few minutes anyway, and isn't that kind of worrying. Then Egbert is behind you, reaching around your waist to work your cock up and down slowly, squeezing at the base just a little, his erection pressed into your ass and you whimper again, almost biting through your lip.   
           "Say my name," he says, and you groan it out, shuddering as his other hand starts tracing your ass, fingering your opening with more cold lotion but not slipping inside.  
           He takes his hands away, and you say his name again, a low gravelly " _John_ ," that makes you feel pathetic and weak. You're not sure what he's doing behind you, but you're also not sure you want to look. Then his still-slick hands are on your hips, and he's saying, "This is going to be awesome," and you're not sure if he's talking to you or himself, then he's moving up, pressing into you and ah, ah, ahhhhhhhh no no shit too soon too fast no no stop  
           But all you can do is whimper and moan, pleading and begging "John, John," as his dick slides inside you, too rough and fast even for how much lotion he's slathered on himself. "Relax," he says, and you shudder, tenseness draining from you limbs as you unclench and hang your head, hair flopping in your eyes that are definitely not watering in any way shape or form. John moans, the low vibrations making you tremble, and you feel like you might collapse or come or both. Because yeah, it hurts like a tooth canal from a stoned-off-his-rocks dentist, but it also feels awesome, and that contradiction is tearing you apart. John stops, flush against you, and you realize he's all the way in and can't keep a little sob from bubbling up in the back of your throat, that transforms into something a mewling kitten would make on its way out. John pulls out just a couple inches, then slams himself back in, rough and fast and no, no no no  
           "Yes," he grinds out, and one of his hands is on your cock again, rhythm erratic and not really there, out of time with his sporadic thrusts but still sending weak bursts of pleasure skittering under your skin. "Yes," he says again, "Say my name," he says, and you do, the words like poison on your lips, stinging and beautiful all the same. "Tell me you're mine," he says, and you speak your first words that aren't helpless whimpers or his name in the past fifteen minutes. They're just, "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm _yours_."  
           He leans forward, and you can feel his head on your back, nuzzling into you as his hips continue to set a reckless pace. He's a constant flow of words now, a broken string of "Dave," "say," and "feel," that has you babbling his name as something builds inside you, feeling like a bubble of sunshine, warmth and pleasure and heat and pain, growing bigger and bigger and you just know it's going to pop, you know what's going to make it pop and you suddenly find yourself grinding back on John even as your head screams no, no no no this is a bad idea stop this _right now_. But no one can hear that except you, especially not John who's sweating heavily and pounding into you with enough force to bruise, and then he thrusts, and holds, shuddering as he comes inside you with a cry, setting off your own reaction that makes you buck once before falling face-first into the mattress, limbs weak and shaking.  
           John pulls out of you, and you shiver, feeling empty and sick. This was wrong. Everything about this was wrong and you knew that, why didn't John know that? John just kept giving you orders and telling you things, like he knew you had to obey like he was the one who made you obey _because he was dipshit_ John told you to obey him _John made you obey him_ John  
           John fucking raped you.  
           You keen softly as flashes of memory flare in your mind, John's voice telling you to trust him, to enjoy yourself, because you were both going to have sex and you were going to like it. And you'd agreed and it didn't make any sense, any sense at all, but you knew this wasn't something you'd wanted and it happened anyway and he could make it happen again. _John's fault_.  
           You roll off the bed, stumbling to your feet and weaving toward the door. You need to get outside. You just need some fresh air. You almost make it there when Egbert's behind you, asking "What are you doing?" You blink up at him, expression as blank as possible, still unable to talk. "Put the—" he starts, but some part of you shouts no, and you give him a shove, eyes blazing. He falters back a few steps, looking up, more disgruntled than anything else, repeating "Put the bunny back in the box."   
           You feel it wash over you then, calm and soothing, sanding away your unhappiness and stress like a full-body cleanse, but you fight it, blinking rapidly. You sway on your feet, and you're not sure if you'll make it, but then Egbert is at your side, grinning and saying, "That was pretty good, huh Dave?" and you sock him in the face just to see if you can.  
           Turns out you can.  
           He stares up at you from the floor, shock written in every line of his features, and you sag against the door, still fighting the need to sink down and do what he says. But at least you can set one thing straight.   
          "No," you say. "It wasn't."


	13. Get Out

==> Dave: Get out of there.

           You almost tumble to the ground when you twist the doorknob and the door flies open, propelled by your weight against the wood. Egbert starts to scramble up after you, and you kick him in the stomach, probably harder than you should, but not harder than he deserves. He flops back down on the ground, making little gasping noises that you want to stop. You want to make him better, make him comfortable, obey hah _fuck no_.  
           You scramble down the hallway, still trying to make sense of all the jagged pieces in your head. You're still naked, and the only clothes you can think of that aren't in John's room are in his dad's. The old man's clothes are an ill-fit, but the shoes at least are comfortable, and really you just need to _get out_.  
           You shove the window open, letting in the cold January wind, dropping out into the snow with a tumble and a crouch to break your impact. Then you set off jogging for what you think is the direction of the lake, eyes stinging in a way that you're definitely going to chalk up to the weather.

==> John: …There's really nothing to say to you.

           You didn't mean for things to go this far. It started as a harmless gesture-of-kindness-turned-prank. Well. Sort of. You can explain, really!

           Except, it turns out, you can't. There's no explaining away what you just did to Dave.

           You could say that it really _did_ start out as you trying to help him. You could say that when things turned toward pranking, nothing you did really _hurt_ Dave. You could say that, he seemed to want things to go the way they were as much as you. You could say that he wouldn't have brought a whole box of condoms with him if he didn't want things to go like this.  
           But Dave couldn't say anything. You didn't give him that option.  
           You curl in a little tighter on yourself, hugging your stomach. You didn't even think about telling Dave not to speak. Wasn't that the kind of sexy talk people were always doing in pornos? Didn't they get aggressive and pin down their partner and say mean things and call eachother names? But it was all part of the _game_ , it was all _fun_ and awesome and it felt _really good_.  
           Then Dave shoved you. You still didn't get it; you thought that was how things went, part of a game you didn't really want to play because it wasn't centered around you.   
           Then Dave punched you.  
           Then Dave said no.  
           Then Dave kicked you, and ran away.

           It hurts. Your stomach, yeah. But what hurts more is thinking that Dave's been trying to say no, been trying to fight you, all this time, and you just didn't see it. Maybe you didn't want to see it. Because it would mean this. It would mean Dave running away and you having to face the fact that, yeah. You're the badguy here. You did something…something awful.

           You have to fix things.

 

==> Dave: Freeze your ass off in the snow.

           Yeah, you've got that covered. What's a little less easy is trying to figure everything out.  
           You found the lake, frozen over with orange traffic cones all along the edges and signs that warn of thin ice. There's still kids out and around, darting a few feet out and laughing at eachother, tossing snowballs and building snow forts and smiling with cups of cocoa and it's all just so sickeningly normal and _adorable_ that you think you're going to throw up.  
           You halt next to a tree, palm on rough bark as you shiver with cold and something else. You remember, in bits and broken pieces so sharp they hurt. But you remember.  
           Sometimes you'd wake up in the middle of listening to one of John's tracks, and you'd hear his voice talking to you. Your mind said the words didn't matter, but you knew that sometimes he'd tell you to do things. It hadn't mattered though. It wasn't like you were going to do what he said just because he told you to.  
           _But you did you sick fuck, like you were asking for it, like you wanted this._  
           You guys talked on pestervoice more, and sometimes you'd do things that didn't make sense, but it had been okay, everything didn't have to make sense as long as Egbert was there.  
           _Did you want him even then? Were you trying to get closer to him, what was **wrong** with you?_  
           Since you've been at his house, you've done more things that didn't make sense. Sound clips filled with static waver in your head, Egbert telling you to undress, to listen to him, to obey him, and you knees shake _because you want to go back you want to listen and obey and let him make everything better_.  
           You in the shower with him comes back, and bile rises in your throat because you're still not sure if that was your imagination or something he did to you _don't lie it must have been you you liked it you dirty fucking whore_.  
           There are big blanks in your memory, passages of time where you can't remember anything, and that worries you the most, that there are still things you don't remember _and that's okay you wish you didn't remember any of it Egbert could make it so you don't remember any of it_ —  
           You pull your hand back from the tree trunk, curling it in a fist and punching into the bark as hard as you can, which it turns out isn't all that hard when you're shaking with cold and fatigue. You hand still comes away bleeding though, and you catch a mom a few yards away shushing her child and hurrying him up the path. You realize that you probably make an awful sight, but you can't go back to Egbert's house. You can't stay here.  
           You have to call your Bro.

           It takes a few tries before you find someone that will let you use their phone, and then you have to have them dial the number for you, because your fingers are numb with cold and won't hit the tiny keys right. Then it's ringing, and your stomach is twisting into knots as you try to figure out what you're going to say.  
           The ringing stops, a click coming across the line before a gruff voice says, "Sup."  
           Turns out you don't really need to think about what to say after all. "I need to come home."  
           Breathing, like he's shifting the phone (lazy fuck probably just woke up). "Your flight's in a few days, kid."  
           Your chest gets a little tight. "I know," you say. "I just. I need to come home right now." Your voice cracks a little at the end, and you wrap your free arm around yourself, rubbing quickly to try to warm up.   
           "Everything alright?"  
           You sniffle, pulling the phone away too late to muffle it. "No. Yeah. It's doesn't matter. I'll pay you back. I'll get a job or you can sell my stuff or, or, I don't know. I just." You hunch over, fighting back the urge to cry, because Dave Strider Does Not Cry. "I need to come home," you repeat. "Please."  
           The last comes out a whisper, and you think your Bro must've left you hanging as punishment for putting on such a weak display because the other end is silent so long. Then there's some more shuffling and static, and Bro's voice comes back on the line. "There's a flight out of Seattle in three hours. That soon enough?"  
           You choke back a sob, something loosening and making it easier to breathe even though you hadn't known it was hard in the first place. "Yes. Yeah. I have to get my stuff—" Your breath hitches again. Shit. You have to get your stuff. You have to go back there.  
           "Bro, I—if I change my mind." You pause, trying to think of something to say that will make even a semblance of sense. Then you give up on that and just say, "Make me come home. Even if I call you up later and say I don't want to. Make me come home."  
           The line crackles. "You sure?"   
           "Yeah." You nod, even though he can't see it. "I'm sure."  
           "I'll pick you up when your flight comes in," he says.  
           "Thanks," you say, because there's not much else you can say. "Bye."  
           He doesn't say goodbye back, but the line goes dead and that's comforting in its own familiar way. You hand the stranger back her phone, giving her the best smile you can muster, which after all is pretty bad. "Thanks," you say again, and you're just a fountain of gratitude today, aren't you? "Do you know which way it is to fir street? I'm not really from around here." You don't want a repeat of getting lost and trudging through snow banks on your way back.  
           She points behind you, arm angled slightly to the right. "It's not too far that way! A pretty straight shot. Kind of bad to walk in this weather, though. You want a ride?"  
           You eye her for a second, trying to give her a score on your "wants to take me home and murder me" meter, but then hey, Egbert got a zero on that scale and look where you two ended up. That thought makes you shudder, and you figure, what the hell. Can't get much worse.  
           "Sure."

           The lady's not so bad, just keeps chatting at you, but at least she cranks the heater all the way up, and you shove your hands in front of the vents, stretching your feet out to catch the heat coming from the floorboards. Her eyes get wide when you direct her to Egbert's house, but she lets you go with the relatively restrained, "Tell pipe—James that office-urchin says hello!" You nod and slip out of the truck, feet crunching in snow. She rumbles away behind you, and you shiver again, cold seeping through to your skin.

           You hesitate for a moment in front of the door before just pushing in. If you can get in and out without anyone noticing, it'll be for the best. Looks like luck's not on your side, though, because Egbert Sr. is coming out of the kitchen just as you step in. He strides over to you with purpose, and you hunch your shoulders, self-conscious in his clothes. He stops in front of you, silent for a long time, and when you look up, his expression softens, brown eyes warm and crinkled at the edges. He puts a hand on your shoulder and asks, "How are you doing, son?"  
           You flinch at his touch, mumbling something and dodging around him up the stairs. It's probably rude but you don't really care. You'll be out of here in another few hours anyway.  
           You push open John's door, sighing in relief when you see that his room is empty. A startled sound comes from your left, and your hand falls from the doorknob when you turn to see Egbert sitting shirtless on his bed in a pair of sweatpants, clutching a stuffed animal that looks like a giant yellow salamander to his chest.  
           "Dave," he squeaks, eyes wide.  
           "Hey," you say, because what else is there to say?  
           You cross the room to his closet, crouching down to shove all your stuff into your suitcase as fast as possible. You hear him get up behind you, and your breath comes a little faster, eyes trained in front of you.   
           "Dave," he says again, and the sound is so much closer this time that you can't help turning around and there he is, right there, two feet away and all kinds of pathetic, eyes red like he's been crying since you left and hair a tangled mess. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know."  
           "Didn't know?" you say, and it comes out harsh. "What, that you were _fucking_ me? You slipped and accidentally stuffed your dick in my ass? So sorry, Dave, but it was an accident, can't we just go back to being friends? Well fuck _you_ , Egbert. Do you even— _fuck_ you."  
           He takes another step toward you, and he just looks so hurt and sad and, yeah, sorry, that you want to take it back. Stick your hand out and give him a fist-bump, reaffirm your broship and never talk about any of this again.  
           "Dave," he croaks, and your heart gives a little twinge. "I'm sorry. I'd make it up to you if I could. I'd do anything you asked, even though it wouldn't be enough. I'm s-so s-sorry." He looks—he looks about how you feel, broken and lost as tears start dribbling down his cheeks, and you can't really help it, you've spent the last four years building him up when he's down. "S'alright," you say, zipping up your suitcase. "We'll…we'll talk. I just need to leave right now." You straighten, bag in your hands.  
           "Now?" he says, and you spare him a look as you shuffle over to the nightstand where your phone is plugged in next to your shades.   
           "Yeah, now," you say. "Flight leaves in an hour," which isn't strictly true but you don't want to hang around here longer than you have to.  
           "Don't go," he says, and you halt, turning to look at him. He steps up close to you, bottom lip trembling under those monster teeth of his, and puts a hand on your chest. "Stay," he says, and you swallow, something thick and hot in your throat.  
           "Egbert," you begin, but he cuts you off.   
           "Stay with me," and you feel like you should, like maybe if the two of you just sat down and talked everything over, things would make sense again.  
           "Stay here," he says, and you drop your bag, still unsure. "Everything will be better if you stay here." You blink, feeling a little tired, like maybe you should stay here, get some rest, think things over in the morning.   
           Egbert leans against you a little, head on your shoulder, voice on a direct line to your mind. "I'll fix everything," he says, "if you just stay with me."  
           _Yeah, just stay here, and Egbert will fix everything, make you forget, make you feel good again, and everything will go back to the way it should be. You could just stay here forever, call back Bro and…and…_

           You head snaps back, having slowly leaned forward to let Egbert run his fingers through your hair. You shove him away, snarling a string of curses directed more at yourself than him. "Dave?" He sounds panicked and scared, but you don't have time to comfort him. Being around Egbert is dangerous. Even if he says it's all an accident, he's got power over you, and you can't trust yourself to be in the same room as him. You snatch your phone off the nightstand, ripping the charger out of the wall forcefully enough that it's probably broken now.   
           "Put the bunny back in the box," you hear, and you shudder, dropping the charger and suitcase from nerveless fingers. His voice is high, sounding unsure and desperate, but it's still making you want to relax, to listen and let go.  
           "Dave, put the bunny back in the box," and you sink to your knees, shaking, needing to fight him _needing to let go_ just stand up _just lay down_ just walk away _just listen to Egbert and everything will be okay_.  
           "I'm going to fix everything," he says, and kneels down next to you. That's his mistake. Twisting a little to face him, for the second time that day, you punch John Egbert. It goes worse for him this time, something crunching when your fist hits his nose, and he flops to the floor, specks of warm blood hitting your face.   
           "Dave," he whines. "Sta—mmf!" And you're on him, arm around his throat, cutting off his air (a memory sparks of him doing the same to you, shoving you against the fridge, but you push it down, now's not the time for distractions).   
           "Shut up," you hiss, yanking open his nightstand and looking for something to stuff in his mouth. "Shut up, shut up, _shut up_." You come up with a pair of garish Christmas socks that he probably got just this year, and a belt, curled tight in a way that said John Egbert did not know how to store his clothes. You loosen your arm around his neck, wasting no time in shoving the socks in his mouth, then yank his arms back, looping the belt around them and pulling tight. He squeaks, sounds muffled, and you stomp down the part of you that says _let him go_. You're not getting out of this room unless he stops talking, and it looks like this is the only way to get him to stop, short of beating him unconscious, and that's not a road you want to go down, no matter how much he hurt you.   
           You sit him upright, looking at him, just _looking_ at him for a long while. "What you did," you say, "is not something friends do to eachother. Ever. I don't know if I ever want to see you again" lie, lie lie lie you do, you don't want to leave right now, "but if you want there to be any chance, any chance at all, of me even speaking to you again, you will never say those words again. Do you understand?"  
           He nods, eyes watering and lip quivering, and you want to let him go, let him up, lesson learned, but you don't. Instead you stand up, shoving your phone in your pocket and picking up your suitcase. You pick up your sunglasses, then pause, and very deliberately set them back down.  
           Then you walk out of the room, and don't look back.


	14. Home

==> Dad: Engage your son's friend in a warm heart-to-heart.

           You tried, but the he does not seem like a heart-to-heart sort of gentleman. He dodged past you and up to your son's room, and you let him go, knowing they needed to talk things out. It looks like your son didn't heed your advice, and rushed into things too fast. Still, you're proud of him for loving people with all of himself, even if it means he'll get his heart broken a few times.  
           Your PDA chimes in your pocket, and you pull it out, opening up SeriousBusiness to see a message addressed to you.

 **The following matters have been submitted in a frank and forthright manner for pipefan413's judicious appraisal.**

officeurchin1280 – 17:34  
Dropped off kid @ pipefan413 's house. Son?

pipefan413 – 17:36  
A friend of his. Thank you for your assistance.

officeurchin1280 – 17:36  
It's what business partners are for.

officeurchin1280 – 17:36  
Seemed upset. Everything alright?

pipefan413 – 17:37  
Evidence points to heartbreak.

officeurchin1280 – 17:37  
Growing up is hard.

pipefan413 – 17:37  
Yes, but at least we can try to be as understanding as possible.

officeurchin1280 – 17:18  
Good work. Fellow parent always prepared to help.

pipefan413 – 17:38  
Thank you.

           You pocket your PDA then, tidying up the living room and taking a moment to look at the ashes of your dearly departed mother on the mantle. You learned everything you know about being a parent from her, and you hope she is proud of the job you are doing raising her grandson, even if she never got the chance to meet him.  
           The door to John's room opens at the top of the stairs, and you look up to see young Strider standing there, closing the door behind him with his suitcase clutched too tightly in his hands. "Where are you going son?" you call up, and he starts, guilty look easier to read without his customary eyewear.  
           "Home," he says, bounding down the stairs, almost tripping between lugging his baggage and wearing your pants that are too long for him. Your dress shirt is loose on him, and it slips down one shoulder to lay a trail of hickeys on his neck bare. Your eyes widen a little. You didn't think John had it in him. You are so proud of that boy.  
           "That's a long ways from here," you say, voice gentle. No matter what's happening between him and John, it is not your position to lay blame. You can only try to do what you think is best for them so long as they are in your household. Which, if the Strider boy's words are to be taken at face-value, will not be much longer for him.  
           "Change in plans," he says. "Flight got moved up to today. Already told John."  
           You glance up at your son's bedroom door. You'll have to bake him a few cakes and take them up to his room later to see if he's alright. But that will have to wait.  
           "Let me get my keys," you say. "I'll drive you."  
           He shakes his head before you're even done speaking, and you frown. It must have been some quarrel they had. "I insist. You can't walk all the way to the airport in the snow."  
           His hand goes to adjust the glasses that aren't there before he puts it back down, eyes hardening. "Watch me."  
           You sigh. Now he's just being foolish. "Why don't I call you a cab, since you seem reluctant to accept my help. In the meantime, you can change into some of your clothes?" You put a slight emphasis on _your_ , and his ears go red.   
           "Don't have money for a cab," he mumbles, and you pat him on the back.  
           "That's alright son. I'll take care of things." He heaves a sigh, but says "I'll pay you back," and goes into the study to change.  
           You pull out your PDA.

pipefan413 – 17:58  
@ officeurchin1280 I could use your assistance again.

 

Dave: Go home.

           When you head outside and instead of a cab it's the lady in the truck again, you give Mr. Egbert a look. He of course smiles back in what's meant to be a calming manner and says "The cab companies have a hard time getting around when the weather is bad. I thought this would be faster, since she was still in the area."  
           You mutter that you're not here to help him pick up chicks but swing your luggage into the bed of her truck anyway, just wanting to get out. You've wasted too much time on Egberts and their goddamned shenanigans already.

           The lady cranks up the heat and picks up her chattering like she never left off. You stare out your window, trying not to think about anything at all.

 

==> Bro: Pick up your little brother.

           You catch sight of him (where are his glasses?) just as he's coming out of the glass doors of the airport and you swing into the loading/unloading area, heedless of the pedestrians around you. You'd wanted to go inside to meet him at the gate, but he'd sounded kind of messed up on the phone, and giving him distance usually made him feel strong, while being clingy said "I don't trust you to not fuck this up." His coat looks a shade too warm for Houston, even if it's winter, but when he buckles in next to you he doesn't loosen it. If anything, he gives a little shiver, and you turn on the heat. That earns you a glare—you never turn on the heat, he has to think you're coddling him—so you bitch about not having enough time to grab a jacket because some snot-nosed punkass kid called you up and ruined your plans. That seems to settle him, and you pull out of the airport to take him home.  
           He doesn't say anything on the drive, and though you let him have his silence, you wish that for once, he'd just _tell_ you what was going on. You built him up to keep out the world, not you, but then, you guess you've given him plenty of reason to want to keep you out too. Still, kid's not one to blow up over nothing, so you're inclined to think that Egbert dork he's always not-moaning about must've done something really bad to piss him off enough to come home early. He even said you could hock his stuff, and the kid never, _ever_ let you touch his stuff (not that you cared, it was just a sure-fire way to get him to strife, even if he was being a whiny bitch-ass). And that thing, about making him come home, even if he changed his mind? Kid had you worried.  
           You pull into a Taco Bell drive thru, figuring the fact that he hates Taco Bell will temper you buying him food. He flips you off and orders ten bucks worth of their cheapest, most filling foods. Your eyebrow ticks up a fraction of an inch—did they not bother to feed him over there? You order yourself the kid's meal because you see they've got the gendered toy thing going on, and you could use a tiny pink hairbrush for all those smuppet locks that are always getting tangled and matted with sweat. It's only a few blocks from there to your house, so you wait until you're home to eat, though you think maybe you shouldn't have when the kid stumbles on the stairs. What the hell? Kid's been climbing stairs since he could walk. You can't exactly help him, that'd never get him to open up, so you do the only thing you can do: slice his suitcase in half.  
           He gapes at you for a full three seconds before his sword is out and his expression turns grim. Then you strife.  
           You don't really care how the fight goes, the point was to scatter his stuff all over the stairway and get him mad enough at you that he'd think you carrying it all up was an apology instead of a helping hand. But the kid's more distracted and pissed off than you thought, attacking you in a reckless way that says he doesn't care if he gets hurt as long as he gets to hurt you back. You disarm him, because shit like that's not gonna fly, but accidentally give him a cut on his cheek to match the bruised ribs he gave you. He glares at you for a second, like he knew what you were doing, then grabs your kiddie meal bag and throws it down the stairs. Then he flashes the rest of the way to your apartment, leaving you with two thoughts. One: Where the hell did you pink girl hairbrush end up.  
           And two: What the _fuck_ did they do to your little bro?

 

==> Dave: Lock Bro out of the apartment.

           There'd be no point. Even if Bro didn't already have the key, he's a master of breaking and entering—of _course_ he can get into his own locked apartment.  
           You leave the door open behind you instead, knowing it irritates him, and go to your room, shoving your food in the minifridge next to the desiccated rat in the plastic baggie you really should've just tossed out. You figure it'll last you at least a week (the food, not the rat) if you decide to hole up in your room—which, yeah, you've basically already decided to do. You know it's the wuss thing to do. You don't care. You don't want to see anyone, hear anyone, talk to _anyone_.   
           You go over to your mixing equipment, pulling records from the shelf at random and cranking the volume loud enough to blow out the oversized DJ headphones you settle over your ears. You settle into the rhythm of flip, slide, scratch, play, spinning out something synthesized and broken to drown out the world and pretend everything is the fine.  
           It almost works.

           Almost.


	15. A Few Pesterlogs Excerpts (but not many)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not every pesterlog conversation that takes place over this period of time. It is just the ones that I thought would most effectively make you hate me.

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 22:25 

EB: my dad freaked out when he found me tied up!  
EB: i told him you really got me good.  
EB: i don't think he believed me that it was a prank, but that's okay! i told him it was my fault anyway.  
EB: he won't get mad at you or anything.  
EB: i guess that's not really the point though.  
EB: god, this is so stupid.  
EB: not you! me! i mean me! i'm being really stupid.  
EB: i've been really, really stupid.  
EB: but i guess you already know that a lot better than me.  
EB: i'm really sorry.  
EB: it doesn't sound like enough, i know.  
EB: please just talk to me.  
EB: please.  
EB: i miss you.  


ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 22:31 

 

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 00:01 

EB: i'm sorry  
EB: jesus  
EB: i'm so, so sorry.  
EB: i can't believe all the stupid shit i've done, that i ever thought that was alright.  
EB: i can explain!  
EB: please just talk to me.

ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 00:04 

 

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 01:03 

EB: i can't explain.  
EB: i can't explain any of it.  
EB: i could tell you what led up to it,  
EB: but i don't think that would help.  
EB: i'm so, so, so sorry.  
EB: i understand if you don't want to talk to me ever again.

ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 01:07

 

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 02:54 

EB: daver  
EB: davr plaede come backl  
EB: yu're ,i besu freind  
EB: i loce uu  
EB: i fiucleng love you  
EB: pleasr  
EB: i miss uou  
EB: i messed up fo bad please just came back  
EB: dave  
EB: hoe do i liivr eithout uyou  
EB: i want to knoe  
EB: how do i brestje without you  
EB: id you ever fo  
EB: how do i ever  
EB: ever  
EB: erver  
EB: ever surcice  
EB: dave  
EB: please  
EB: you're my little hummingbird  
EB: please  
EB: i can fic everuthing  
EB: please  
EB: pleas  
EB: please  
EB: dabe please fuck i need oup so bad  
EB: you letft your dlasses you have to come back for tose right  
EB: right  
EB: you're coming back tight  
EB: plesde  
EB: pleade cpme nbac;

ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 03:14

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 06:30

TT: John appears to be very upset.  
TT: He called me an hour ago to tell me that alcohol tastes even worse on the way back up.  
TT: I do not know what happened between the two of you—he seems to blame himself for whatever it was, while refusing to go into more detail than that he's sorry—but it seems likely that he will continue to behave in a self-destructive manner so long as you cut him off.  
TT: Just talk to him, Dave.  
TT: I'm worried about you both.

tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 06:39

 

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 013:04

EB: i'm really sorry.  
EB: you can ignore all those messages i sent.  
EB: or you can read them  
EB: i was just being really, really stupid.  
EB: big tough hero guys in movies are always drinking their sorrows away and then there's some pretty little barmaid to help them through and i thought  
EB: i'm sorry  
EB: i just think about never getting to see you again  
EB: never talking to you again  
EB: and i get so scared  
EB: i panic  
EB: i'd do anything to make you stay but  
EB: you shouldn't be staying if i have to make you do it.  
EB: i'm sorry. 

ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 13:25

 

gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:07

GG: dave?  
GG: none of us have heard from you in a while :(  
GG: it's okay if you don't want to talk about what happened with you and john!!  
GG: (even though we'd totally understand, whatever it was)  
GG: just please talk to us?

gardenGnostic [GG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:15

 

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 16:00

EB: i'm sending you your glasses in the mail.  
EB: i don’t know if you still want them or not  
EB: i understand if you don't.  
EB: but i shouldn't keep holding on to them hoping  
EB: that you'll forgive me.  
EB: i'm sorry.

ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 02:06

 

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 02:08

EB: i miss you.

ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 02:09

 

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 22:12

EB: i just want him to talk to me.  
TT: As do I.  
TT: I feel as though I should again inquire:  
TT: What happened between the two of you?

ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 22:14

TT: Goddamnit.

 

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 15:39

TT: I could write an entire treatise on the stubbornness of males and their stout refusal to address their most pressing concerns in the face of overwhelming evidence that shutting themselves in like a child does no good to anyone based on your actions alone.  
TG: hey  
TT: I could also fly down to Texas and rain my own personal brand of fury down  
TT: Dave  
TT: I  
TT: Ignore that. All of that.  
TT: How are you feeling?  
TG: not so great  
TG: cant sleep  
TG: figured talking to you might do the trick  
TT: Good to see that your humor is still intact without the constant sharpening it requires against lesser intellects.  
TG: fuckn  
TG: cant sleep'  
TG: shakrs and shit trying to bet me  
TT: Am I to infer that you have a gambling problem with sharks?  
TG: jus keep sauing trust me trust me  
TG: shit that s the worst i do  
TG: trust me i do  
TG: and he statrst tearing em up anyway  
TG: hurts so fuckin bad  
TG: cant scream don’t sccream cant scream  
TT: Strider I need you to be perfectly honest and straightforward with me at this time. If I find out later this is some charade on your part, I will have lost a faith in you that cannot be regained. But in the case this is a sincere plea for help on your part, you need to tell me: are you in danger right now? Or are you talking about what happened already, between you and John?  
TG: keeps happening  
TG: keeps FUCKING HAPPENING  
TG: think i want ti to  
TG: fuck what the fuck  
TG: what kind of meddde oup person wantd that  
TT: From the sound of things, you are blaming yourself for something that was not your fault.  
TT: Something that John has already repeatedly admitted blame to.  
TG: john  
TG: FUCK JOHN  
TG: fucking  
TG: fuck  
TG: fuckgin fairy fuckr whorebithc motherfucker FUCK YOU  
TG: break me  
TG: broke me  
TG: fucking buck tereth blue eyes broke me  
TG: doont look at his eyres rose  
TG: he fills the m up with lies bros—  
TG: —ki like to my heart but its coming apart fucking cumeing apart  
TG: from the astart  
TG: couldn’t stop couldn’t resist sis  
TG: because its all happened before god knows the score and he thinks striders a fucking WHORE  
TG: but he's wrong cause its his fucking bitch that’s singing that song but its wrong to long still wrong fro long its wrong its rwong  
TG: what is fuckin wwrong with mre  
TT: It sounds as though you have suffered an emotional trauma that is beyond my ability to help you with.  
TT: And I do want to help you.  
TT: But you should also find someone you can talk to in person.  
TT: Strider.  
TT: What happened?  
TG: nothing  
TG: nohting happened at all  
TT: You speech up to this point would indicate otherwise.  
TT: If you don't want to talk about the incident directly, I can respect your wishes for the time being.  
TT: It seems that you initially came to me for help sleeping. I apologize for interpreting your words as a joke—though surely I can be forgiven, as it is not every day that a patient complains of insomnia at three in the afternoon. Or two, as it is in Houston.  
TT: But perhaps this speaks to the severity of the problem.  
TT: How long have you been unable to sleep?

turntechGodhead [TG] is now an idle chum!

TT: Shit.

 

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 16:08

TT: I like you, John.  
TT: I consider you a close and personal friend of mine.  
EB: what?  
EB: uh rose what are you saying here?  
TT: Hush now, the adult is speaking.  
TT: What I am saying is that over the years, I have developed a respect for you that is sometimes lost under my veneer of sarcasm and aloof attitude.  
TT: I understand that you, and some other members of our group, are under the impression that I do not care about the rest of you as much as you care about me.  
EB: we don't think that!  
TT: No interrupting; you will know when it is your turn to speak.  
TT: I can assure you that I care very, very deeply for you all.  
TT: If I were to ever discover that any of you had come to serious harm, I might turn to some of the darker books at my disposal.  
TT: Some of the more grim grimoires, if you will.  
TT: To exact my revenge.  
TT: That is not a threat, but an expression of how dear you all are to me.  
TT: You have all been very near a family to me—Jade, the unflappable younger sister sometimes wise beyond her years, you and Dave, a bickering pair of brothers.  
TT: I value that closeness, John.  
TT: I value your unexpected cleverness, your unfailing comradelier, your companionship, through these years.  
TT: I also value your honesty.  
TT: So I would like you to think very, very hard about the question I am about to ask you.  
TT: Very, very hard John.  
TT: What.  
TT: The fuck.  
TT: Did you do.  
TT: To my brother.  
EB: i'm sorry.


	16. Out of Your Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this far!  
> Just so you know, the following chapter is going to be VERY long. You can think of it as the final chapter, if you'd like! I mean you don't have to. There is definitely a Chapter 17, right there beyond that "Next Chapter" button. But I'm just saying, you could! If you wanted to.
> 
> Also--Rose's speech actually says something, if you can figure out how to translate it.

TT: Sorry about what?  
TT: Specifically?  
EB: …  
TT: What. Did. You. Do?  
EB: something bad.  
TT: John. You are trying my patience.  
TT: What.  
TT: Did.  
EB: it was an accident!  
TT: You.  
TT: WHAT was?!  
EB: i  
EB: dave was having a lot of trouble sleeping and i just wanted to help him and maybe i wanted to prank him too and maybe i liked him i don’t know but i'm not gay!  
TT: Go on.  
EB: and then he came to my house and that was really awesome and but  
EB: shit  
TT: What?  
EB: i made him do things he didn't want to do.  
TT: Like?  
EB: like, remember when we were at the mall and i wanted you to call me and you guessed it was for a prank?  
TT: Am I to understand that I am finally to receive an explanation of that incident?  
EB: i made dave act like a girl.  
EB: to the song.  
TT: You told Dave to act like a girl to the song playing on your phone?  
EB: no!  
EB: i mean yes, but.  
EB: i hypnotized him.  
EB: he had to.  
TT: …  
TT: John, that is not how hypnosis works.  
EB: but that's what happened!  
TT: I understand that you may think you "made" Dave do something, but hypnosis in reality is not how you see it portrayed in movies.  
EB: shut up!  
TT: The subject is usually aware of what is going on. They do not engage in activities that they  
TT: Excuse me?  
EB: you said to tell you what happened and i AM. you try to say that 'that's not how things really work john' and 'you must be mistaken john' but i'm not rose this is what really happened so just fucking listen to me okay  
EB: ????!  
TT: Go on.  
TT: I'm listening.  
EB: i tried to help dave sleep better using hypnosis.  
EB: and then i started pranking him and making him do things, like acting like a girl or taking off his clothes.  
EB: and i really liked him doing the things i told him to.  
EB: i REALLY liked it, rose.  
TT: are you saying that it did things for you, sexually?  
EB: i don't know, maybe???  
EB: but i'm not gay or  
EB: i don't know maybe i am.  
TT: Sexual identity is more than a simple binary problem of gay/not gay.  
TT: It is possible that you were getting off on the perceived power you held over another person, rather than being physically attracted to that person, though the latter cannot be ruled out entirely.  
TT: That person being Dave.  
TT: Though there is more to be said, I believe.  
EB: yeah.  
EB: i uh.  
EB: he gave me a blow job.  
EB: i made him give me a blow job.  
EB: well?  
TT: You made him.  
EB: yeah i. when he's under he's really suggestive and stuff?? and i saw him lick his cum off his hand and it was really hot  
EB: so i  
TT: You saw him what  
EB: told him to lick me, like that.  
EB: oh i uh  
EB: i made him masturbate. to nic cage.  
TT: You put Dave in a hypnotically suggestive state and told him to masturbate to Nicholas Cage.  
EB: yeah.  
TT: The actor.  
EB: yeah.  
TT: And he actually did it.  
EB: yeah.  
TT: There's no possibility he was faking?  
EB: well i guess it's possible. i didn't actually see him. but i mean there was cum on the walls afterward and he shouted nic really loud.  
TT: Shit.  
TT: And then you proceeded to have him perform oral sex on you, in this compromised state, and he did it?  
EB: yeah.

 

           You look up for a moment, thinking you heard a crash from upstairs. Is Rosie throwing your bottles again? Lol, silly Rosie. You keep all your good stuff over in the lab.  
           Still, you should probably go upstairs and see what's broken. After you finish this martini.

 

EB: rose???  
TT: John there are a good many things I wish to say to you right now most of them in person most of them rather violently most of them in a fell language known as the festertongues that you would not understand even were I there to utter the words directly in your ear.  
EB: i'm sorry ._.  
TT: I know you are. It is the only thing letting me entertain the idea of continuing to be your friend.  
TT: But you are correct in your earlier statement that despite my research into the subject, what I know about hypnosis seems to amount to jack shit.  
EB: hehe.  
TT: This is not a laughing matter. Those are not things Dave would have done if he were not mentally compromised to the point of his will no longer being his own.  
EB: well  
EB: i mean i still think the hypnosis i did was real but  
EB: maybe he liked me?  
EB: i mean it's not impossible right?  
TT: It's not impossible that he liked you but lacking stronger evidence to that effect I am inclined to go with the slightly less outlandish claim that for whatever reason your hypnotic induction took a firmer hold on Dave's psyche than it should have.   
EB: hey!  
TT: John this is not the time to be objecting to my saying that Strider was not romantically interested in you.  
TT: I have had many heart-to-hearts with him on the matter and it is my sound conclusion that he is who he is and being raised in the sexually charged environment that he was has not changed him.  
EB: what?  
TT: Dave is straight. But even were he to make an exception for you, as individuals are known to do for those they love despite their normal bounds of physical attraction, he would not, ever, make an exception for Nicholas Cage. Even for irony's sake.  
EB: oh.  
TT: Yes, "oh."  
TT: So when you brought him out of the trance, he remembered what he had done and was understandably furious?  
EB: not  
EB: not exactly.  
TT: Wel then kindly, John, explain.  
TT: Do not leave me on such tenterhooks.  
TT: I have been known to turn to questionable methods of enticing a story out of a victim's mouth if asked to wait too long.  
TT: I'm sorry, did I say victim?  
TT: I meant patient.  
TT: My mistake.  
EB: rose you're really scary sometimes.  
TT: All the more reason to avoid earning my ire, one would think.  
EB: okay so  
EB: there's more.  
TT: Indeed? I'm shocked.  
EB: i  
EB: i really liked him doing the things i said, rose.  
TT: Yes, I believe you may be a bourgeoning dominant and will be available to channel that energy into the appropriately receptive scene at a future date.  
TT: But for now, please continue your story.  
EB: i told him to do whatever i said.  
EB: and then i sort of forgot but like  
EB: i didn't forget i just wasn't really thinking about the things i was saying and wasn't thinking of them as orders  
EB: and then i made him kiss me.  
TT: And he reacted badly afterward?  
EB: no i

ectoBiologist [EB] is now an idle chum!

TT: John, spit it out this instant.  
EB: i made him have sex with me.

 

           Your head snaps up again as a roar from upstairs is followed by a stiff breeze and a tinkling of glass. You sway on your feet, helped by the alcohol swirling in your veins and the shocking thought, the windows are closed why is there a breeze?  
           A strangled scream, something like you imagine the harpy women of fairty tales would make, rings through the house and makes you shiver in a way that has nothing to do with the drop in temperature.  
           A normal mother would be scared for her daughter, and race upstairs to protect her child from whatever demonic thing had broken into her home.  
           A normal mother would be torn to pieces the moment she reached the top of the stairs.  
           Good thing you're not a normal mother.  
           Downing the rest of your drink, you spin on your heel and stride out of the house, headed for the lab. You're going to need something strong to subdue your daughter before she does anything too drastic.

 

TT: Tiy e;ows gun>  
EB: rose?  
TT: Tiy dyxjubf nibarwe U qukk nyeswe tiy,  
TT: Giq xiyks tiy si rg;r> Si tiy wcwb ybswearbs qg;r tiy;ew a;tub> X;b tiy wcwb veubf tiyeakd ri a;t ur>  
EB: rose i can't understand what you're saying.  
TT: Tiy E;OWS gunm Higb, Tiy dyxjubf e;ows gun,  
EB: i'm really sorry.  
TT: Tiy;ew AIEET>  
EB: i didn't mean to.  
TT: Susb;r nw'b ri>~ :Ai aieet S;cwm U ;XXUSWBR;KKT akuoows ;bs qiybs yo qurg nt wxpyuaurwkt rgeivvubf xixj ub tiye ;aa, Aieet n;jwa wcwetrgubf vwrrwem eufgr>  
EB: rose please just say something that makes sense?  
TT: fklhds  
EB: rose?

tentacleTherapist [TT] is now an idle chum!

EB: rose come on!  
EB: please, I need your help.  
TT: sorrey kid rose is a little uncvonscious righty now  
EB: iwhat?  
TT: yeah yuou got her really rildd up but thats okay momma beasr took care of tings  
EB: ms. lalonde?  
EB: uh, hello?  
TT: shit kid what the fuck did you do  
EB: uh  
TT: listen i know youre really confused right now but this is serious  
EB: you read the backlog.  
TT: yes i read it and we need to talk to your dad  
TT: and this dave kids dad  
EB: dave doesn't have a dad.  
TT: really not the point here we need to figure things out and get this kid some help  
TT: stay right there im calling your dad  
TT: whats his number

ectoBiologist [EB] is now an idle chum!

TT: shit

 

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering gardenGnostic [GG] at 17:00

EB: jade!  
EB: i need your help.

 

==> Dave: Try to get some sleep.

           You're trying. You really are.  
           The first day back you didn't want to. You were too scared to sleep, and you stayed on your feet, spinning music, until your vision blurred too badly to see the switches at your fingertips. Even then you kept playing by feel a bit more, but the music wasn't making any sense, so you gave it up and stumbled over to your bed, exhausted.  
           That's when the nightmare started.  
           It wasn't even a proper nightmare, because you weren't really asleep. It was just the sudden, overriding conviction that what you were doing was not you doing it. Your body felt heavy because someone was making it feel heavy. You felt tired because someone was telling you to feel tired. You hopped out of bed, trying to shake the feeling, and then felt like you could hear a voice saying, "Hehe, good job!"  
           You shuddered, going back to your music tables.

 

GG: sure!  
GG: what can i help you with?  
EB: dave's still not answering me.  
GG: i know :(  
GG: he's not talking to any of us!  
GG: what happened with you guys???

 

           It was another couple days before you wore out again. Coffee kept you going mostly, but either Bro hid it, or you were drinking more of it than you thought you were, because there was a time when you went to make another pot and there just wasn't any more. Then you started stuffing yourself with food, because as long as your mouth was moving you didn't have to think about staying up or why you were staying up. But after you ran out of the stuff in your minifridge, there weren't a whole lot more options. So you crashed on the futon, closing your eyes and hoping for the best.

 

EB: it's…kind of complicated.  
GG: >:(  
GG: you can't keep pushing rose and me away.  
EB: i know. i'll tell you about it, but there's something else i have to do first.  
GG: ???  
EB: i need you to help me get to dave's house.

 

           It didn't make any sense. It wasn't even a coherent dream. It was just dark, whispering, pain. Something squeezing you, pressing all the air out, like you couldn't breathe and your throat was on fire and someone was grabbing you, holding you down pushing into you, it was Bro, holding you down covering your mouth and you wanted to let go just let go  
           so you do  
           And when you stop thrashing and just submit you realize that Bro really is holding you down, a hand over your mouth as you sit in his lap and he just rocks you, rocks you back and forth until your muffled scream turns into a sob and you're thrashing all over again because you can't stand for someone to touch you and he lets you go and you stumble a few feet before you sprawl on the ground, breathing harsh. "Bucket," you spit out, and then there's the clatter of metal and you're throwing up in the mop bucket, Bro's hand on your back as it feels like your stomach is turning itself inside out.

 

GG: :o!!  
GG: you're going to talk to him directly??  
GG: i don't think that's such a good idea :/

 

           Turned out he'd set a smuppet trap when you went to John's for the next time you fell asleep on the futon. Five minutes out on the couch, and a pile of smuppets fell on you and you flipped the fuck out, yelling your head off and hitting him until he pulled you into his lap and you woke up. You were torn, wanting him to hold you, feeling safe when he did, but also feeling like less of yourself. Like relying on him to make you feel safe was no better than just, letting Egbert have you.  
           Maybe everything would be easier if you just gave in.

 

GG: it's frustrating that he won't talk to us, but we can't just force him to by showing up on his doorstep.  
EB: i just want to talk to him!

 

           Because the truth was, you missed him.

 

EB: i just want a chance to say i'm sorry.

 

           You logged into your pesterchum. You thought, who knows, maybe Jade's on, maybe you can talk about some silly crap or roleplay some manthros or something, just distract yourself. And then you got that backlog, and it made you feel like this was all your fault.  
           Maybe it was.  
           Maybe you liked it, and just weren't willing to admit it.  
           Because why else would you have let it happen?  
           Why else would you want to go back to him?

 

GG: i still think this is a bad idea :/  
GG: but alright, i'll help you.  
EB: thanks jade!  
GG: but only if you tell me what you did first.

 

           When the fireworks blew up in your face, Bro said it was the last straw. He was going to go to that Egbert kid's house and beat the shit out of him until someone explained what was going on.  
           It wasn't like you'd been trying to set off the fireworks. Shit like that just happened when your kitchen was practically a powder-keg and you were too tired to remember which one was the garbage disposal switch and which one was the lights. Being too tired to dodge the ninja stars that went flying like shrapnel probably didn't help. Bro caught them before they could do anything, Lil Cal flying through the air and taking most of the heat, Bro snatching the rest midair. The look he gave you said you'd really fucked up. And then he said that thing about kicking Egbert's ass.  
           You weren't thinking straight, that much is clear. You thought he was saying that to punish you. That Egbert getting hurt was punishment for you blowing shit up in the kitchen.  
           You pulled out your sword. You strifed, or tried to. But it was like everything was moving a little too fast—faster than normal, anyway—and then Bro was holding you, his chest at your back and arms around your front, and you didn't really feel like fighting anymore. You just wanted to sleep. So you did.

 

EB: jaaaade!  
GG: don't you fucking dare "jade" me mister!  
GG: you want to take advantage of my magic dog spacetime powers, you've got to pay the toll!  
EB: but i just had this big long conversation about this with rose and now she's mad at me and that's why i need to get over there in the first place!  
GG: if you already told rose there is absolutely no reason you shouldn't be telling me!  
EB: i don't have time!  
GG: MAKE time, fuckass!

 

           Sleeping was a bad idea.  
           You dreamt some more. You woke up screaming.  
           You don't really want to talk about it.

 

EB: i did something really bad and i want to try to apologize to dave but he won't listen!  
EB: and everyone says they want to know what happened but that's none of their business it happened to dave it's HIS business and he gets to tell it if he wants!  
EB: what i did was totally not allowed and terrible but i just  
EB: i miss him so bad jade  
EB: i don't even care about the sex.  
EB: i just want my friend back.  
GG: you guys had sex???  
EB: uh.

 

           But of course, whenever there's something you definitely completely never want to talk about ever, somehow you always end up on pesterchum, talking to Rose about it.  
           It didn't help either.

 

GG: what did you do, john?!  
GG: WHAT DID YOU DO??  
EB: i didn't mean to!  
EB: it was an accident!  
GG: you don't ACCIDENTALLY rape someone!!!  
EB: it wasn't  
EB: how do you even know  
GG: you really did!!  
GG: ohmygod!!!

 

           You ended up talking about your dreams, and saying maybe a little more than you should have. You're not even sure what day of the week it is anymore, can you really be held accountable for the things that come out of your mouth?  
           What you should've asked her about was Egbert. How he was holding up. If he was still the godawful mess his pesterlogs made him seem.

 

EB: it's complicated, okay.  
GG: you had sex. that dave didn't want to have.  
EB: well yes but he really seemed to want it at the time!  
EB: maybe.  
EB: i don't know.  
EB: shit.  
GG: how can you not be sure???  
EB: it's a long story but  
EB: i hypnotized dave and i know that's not how it normally works but for some reason it REALLY worked on him and i made him do a bunch of stuff i thought was funny and he didn't remember and then i sort of made him masturbate to nic cage and give me a blow job and then we had sex and i said he couldn't talk but i didn't realize that would make it so he really COULDN'T talk and he came too so he liked it and why would he bring a bunch of condoms to visit me if he didn't want to have sex in the first place but then he was really mad afterward and i tried to fix things but that just made him madder and i'm really sorry i just want to see him again.

 

           If he was sincere about being sorry, or if he was still spouting off about wanting to "fix" things.

 

GG: john, you cannot see dave like this!  
EB: but if i don't see him now, i won't ever again.  
GG: then that might have to happen, because i don't think you even understand what you've done yet D:  
EB: ???

 

           Because, the truth was, as crazy to fucking hell in a flower-woven hand basket as your visit went, you've never been happier than when you were hanging out with Egbert in person.  
           Maybe it was something hypnosis-y he did. You like to think not. If Rose ever parsed out what happened (it was only a matter of time), she'd probably have some name for a condition where a victim still wanted to be with their attacker. But that's just it. Egbert was your friend way before the messed up shit he pulled. Losing him didn't feel like not having to face the horrible monster who took away your will. It felt like losing your best friend.  
           And like not having to face the horrible monster who took away your will. Who could do it again, if he wanted.

 

GG: what is the most important thing in the world to you?  
EB: well you guys are!  
GG: okay well, what if someone told you to kill us?  
EB: what! jade that's really messed up! why would someone even say that???  
GG: shut up and just go with it!  
GG: now someone told you to kill us, and you saaaay?  
EB: no way!  
GG: right!  
GG: but what if that person hadn't ever asked you? they just made you do it?  
EB: i wouldn't!  
GG: but they MADE you john, you couldn't stop it! Even if you really, reeeally wanted to.  
EB: i don't like thinking about this.  
GG: and then everyone said, that boy killed his friends!!!  
GG: he wouldn't have done something so awful if he didn't WANT to!!  
GG: he could have stopped it if he reeeally wanted to!!!  
GG: he wouldn't have had a weapon with him if he hadn't been planning on killing them to begin with!!  
EB: stop talking about this!  
GG: what if when you were killing us, you liked it?  
EB: i wouldn't!  
GG: you just liked swinging your hammer and being strong and it felt good!  
GG: and then afterwards everyone said, he liked swinging his hammer! he liked killing those people!!!  
EB: stop  
GG: and then maybe you thought they were right, because why WOULD you have done all those things if you didn't want to?  
EB: please stop  
GG: because you didn't have a choice!  
GG: because someone took away your choice!  
GG: someone messed you up so badly that you COULDN'T EVEN SAY NO.  
GG: you couldn't even struggle and you actually GOT OFF and now you believe when everyone says it's your fault because the idea that someone violated you so badly and took away your WILL is worse even than believing you wanted it!  
GG: that is what you did to dave!!!

ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering gardenGnostic [GG] at 17:34

GG: oh no you don't mister! i'm finishing this conversation in person!

 

==> John: Completely ignore the lesson Jade was trying to pound into your head.

           You want to, but you can't! You thought rape was when nice people got kidnapped and beaten up and violated and murdered, and you knew that wasn't what you'd done to Dave! He was your friend! And he'd…he'd liked it. Hadn't he?  
           But now that just makes you feel worse. You thought—and he—he probably thinks all those things Jade said. He probably feels really, _really_ terrible now.  
           It's suddenly more important than ever that you make it up to him. If that's even possible.

           Your train of thought is interrupted by a sudden flash of green light, and then there's a giant dog jumping up on you, bowling you over and holding you down with its paws on your chest. You manage to get out an inarticulate yelp before Jade squats down next to you and then there is a very angry girl pointing a very big gun in your face and oh, that dog does not seem so scary anymore.  
           "J-Jade?"  
           She whistles and stands up as the dog gets off you, holding out a hand to haul you up to your feet. "Who else, fuckass?"  
           You blink, adjusting your glasses as you straighten. Somehow Jade cursing at you in person is a lot less endearing than when it's peppered with shout poles and smiley faces. And then she punches you in the gut, and, ow, that is not really endearing at all.  
           You gasp and wheeze a little, sitting down on your bed with watering eyes, but you don't say anything. You just sort of hang your head. You're not really sure what you can say.  
           "Why did you do it?" You feel the bed dip as she sits down next to you, but you keep staring down at your knees.  
           "I didn't mean to," you mumble, and she punches you in the arm, softer this time, though it still hurts.  
           "What did you think you were doing?" You look up at her, and she's got this little frown, eyebrows scrunched together and angry at you, but at least she's not speaking gibberish and scaring the shit out of you. Much.  
           Your eyes go back to your hands, turning and twisting in your lap. "When he kissed me," you start, "I thought it was because he wanted to. I didn't actually tell him to, and I thought, that must mean he wants to." You look up again, eyes pleading. Jade's expression is open, blank. You continue.  
           "He didn't. I wanted him to want to, but he didn't. I wanted—I wanted him." Your hands dig into your thighs, gripping too tight. "I wanted to make him feel good. I wanted to make him mine. No, I—I thought he was mine already." You can feel tears pricking in your eyes, and you blink them back, furious with yourself. "I hurt him," you choke out. "All I wanted was to make him happy, and I hurt him."  
           You feel another punch on your arm, just as hard as last time, and you look up to see Jade glaring at you. "You fuckass."  
           You nod. "Yeah."  
           You startle when the dog snuffles at your legs, sniffing your shoes and making little aroo noises.  
           "Shh," Jade says, making a shooing motion at him before turning to you. "I still can't let you see him."  
           You feel your eyes widening as your face falls. "But, I—" Your protests are cut off as the dog starts barking, and Jade shoots em a look and a growl feral enough to rival any animal. The dog doesn't back off, barks becoming low and drawn out at the end, and Jade stands, shifting the gun up to her shoulder. "You will not," she says, eyes narrowed. The dog gave a growl, a pause, and then three sharp barks, and Jade's eyes went wide. You opened your mouth to ask what was going on, and then everything twisted, like your whole body had fallen asleep and woken up at once, tingles running along your spine and green solar flares burning into your eyes, and then there's thin carpet under your feet and you're in someplace you've never been, hallway lined with doors stretching in both directions. There's another soft aroo, and you look down to find Jade's dog nuzzling at your hand. You scratch him behind the ears, whispering an incredulous, "Did you do this?" He moves forward to paw at the door in front of you, a whine in his throat, and you take a step up, eyes glued to the number on the door: 413. Why would Jade's dog take you to Dave's apartment if she hadn't wanted you to go? Is this Dave's apartment? You're not really sure, but what have you go to lose?  
           You raise your hand and, taking a breath, knock

 

==> Dave: Answer the door.

           When you think you hear a dog whining at your door, you can't help glancing over for a second before wrenching your head back to your brother's computer, clicking at minesweeper some more. There is no dog at your door. There are no wolves trying to get you. There's no one ready to fuck you over, fuck you up, or just plain fuck you. Your brother's not going to back for another couple hours, and there's no reason for anyone to be—  
           _Knock, knock_.  
           You stiffen. There's probably no one there.  
           _Knock, knock, knock_.  
           You push the chair out from the computer desk, spinning to face the door. You wait for another knock before pushing to your feet. Maybe Bro ordered a pizza and forgot to tell you (or maybe he told you and you forgot; your memory hasn't been doing so great, symptom of insomnia). You pluck a random weapon off the switchboard near the door, a pair of nunchuks, and open the apartment door.  
           There's a flash of green just as you do and you blink, blinded for a second, and then there's someone tackling you back and you stumble a few steps, dropping your weapon, before your feet tangle in the cords all over your house and you fall back, ass slamming into the floor hard enough to bruise and a weight on your chest, arms around your neck. "The fuck, Egbert, if you're gonna leave me with a sore ass at least take me out to dinner first." Then he stiffens in your arms, and you realize what you just said, and who you just said it to, and push him roughly away. "What the fuck are you doing here?"  
           He scrambles away from you, pale and scared looking, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. "I wanted to see you."  
           You shouldn't have let him talk. You shouldn't have even let him in the door (not that he gave you much choice—seems to be a pattern with him). You should just kick him out right now. "I know you're pretty thick, but most people would have taken the hint by now that they weren't welcome."  
           He scoots back to lean against a chest plopped in the middle of the room, looking like a rabbit ready to bolt, hands clenched and white-knuckled on the carpet. "I'm sorry. I'll leave if you want me to—"  
           "I want you to."  
           "—but I wanted to say I was sorry."  
           You stare at him, feeling a little dizzy, like this isn't quite real. Egbert randomly showing up on your doorstep saying he's sorry. It might be another hallucination, but those were usually short and focused on tearing you apart. "If you came here to say it, then say it."  
           He shifts awkwardly, drawing one leg up to his chest. You sigh, tired of waiting, and push yourself up, going to the kitchen. "You want something to drink? We've got water and milk, unless the milk is bad." You hear him scramble to his feet behind you, futon creaking as he grabs one of the bars and pulls himself up. "Uh, water is fine." You grab two glasses from the cabinet, vaguely resentful when nothing dangerous or plush falls out. Bro cleared all the traps after the firework incident, and while it's nice to not be on constant lookout for stuff popping out at you, it's almost as unnerving to have everything be in its place. You flip the sink on, filling the two glasses with cold tap and handing one to Egbert as you pass him to go sit on the futon. He trails after you, standing awkwardly a few feet away and setting the glass on a stack of cinderblocks that serves as an end table. "I…I'm sorry," he says. "I want to make it up to you, if I can."  
           You snort, trying to keep this all away, not get up any hopes or expectations. "Make up for what? Deflowering my blushing virginal self? It's already done, don't see why we're talking about it."  
           He looks down, flush creeping up his neck. He mumbles something under his breath, and you set your glass down on the floor, a shade too careful. "I'm not making this easy for you?" You echo. "I'm sorry, would you like to reset and play on beginner mode? I didn't realize this was the John Egbert hour, want me to grovel on the floor and tell you how your apology means the world to me? How I'll finally sleep like a baby wrapped in a fucking horse blanket because I know John fucking Egbert feels _sorry_ for me?"  
           The flush has crept all the way up to his face now, making his skin look blotchy and red. "I don't feel sorry for you," he says, voice still quiet. "I feel sorry for what I did to you." He sits down finally, perched on the edge of the futon like he might bolt at any minute. "I don't think I ever realized what I put you through. And it's hard for me to talk about it because I think I'm finally starting to get what I did and it…it makes me feel awful." You stare straight ahead at the blank television screen. "It makes me feel like the worst person in the world." He laughs, but it doesn't sound like his normal chuckle, airy and infectious. It's strained, like a wheezing cough that makes you cringe. "Maybe it's 'cause I am. I know that there's not really any making things up to you, but I want to try. Anything you ask, I'll do it."  
           You pick the glass of water back up, still refusing to look at him, eyes trained to the television. "Fuck off," you say clearly, "and die." You take a sip of water.  
           He sits there for a moment, still and silent. Then you see him move out of the corner of your eye, feeling the futon shift as he stands up and moves away. Looks like the dumb shit is finally getting a clue and absconding the fuck out. But when you don't hear the front door open and close, you start getting paranoid about what he might be doing back there. Then you hear him in the kitchen, shifting things around, and you can't help it, you look over your shoulder.  
           You still can't really tell what he's doing; he's next to the fridge, leaning over the counter like he's reaching for something, but you know there's nothing really there. He settles back on his heels, moving like he's got something in his hands, he turns and you can see it's one of your Bro's kamas that was hanging on the wall. Those fuckers are sharp as hell, and you watch, wary, to see what he'll do with it. He hesitates, then goes to the sink, and you can't see what he's doing anymore with his back turned to you, so finally you just ask, "What are you doing?" He turns halfway back to you, and that's when you see his wrist held out over the sink, sharp sickle hovering over it in an unsteady grip.  
           You're over the back of the futon and into the kitchen before you can think about it, snatching the weapon out of his hand and glaring at him, breathing harsh. You feel winded just from that, and it hits you just how physically drained you are.  
           "What the _fuck_ was that?" you grind out through gritted teeth, and he gives a little whimper, eyes too big behind his glasses, face draining of color. "You figure oh boo-hoo, Strider's not feeling sorry for my 'poor me I'm the real victim here' routine, maybe if I cut myself I'll get some sympathy? That emo shit is _not_ gonna fly here."  
           "I was…doing what you said," he manages, and you just look at him, unable to believe what you're hearing.  
           " _Are you kidding me?_ You were going to _kill yourself_ because I _said so_? Do you have any idea what kind of idiotic that is?"  
           "I didn't want to!" he wails. "But I made you do a lot of things you didn't want to do, and I thought that if I did things back that maybe—"  
           "Thing, Egbert, you would have done _one thing_ because then you would have been dead, and what are you even thinking anyway, that's not the same thing _at all_. You're deciding here, you're the one with all the fucking power _choosing_ to do what I say."  
           "Then you do it," he says. You search his eyes, trying to figure out what he's saying. "You kill me. And then it won't be my decision." You gape at him, and when your grip on the kama shifts and his eyes flick to your hand, swallowing nervously, you think _hes being serious_.  
           "Are you," you say, slow and deliberate as you raise the weapon in your hands, "out of your _fucking mind?_ " You toss it across the room and it thumps against the wall, bouncing off and clattering to the floor. Egbert flinches, and every inch of you wants to hit him, so you do. Your left hand swings into the side of his jaw, and he reels, stumbling back to brace himself against the counter. You punch him again, a right jab to his chest, and he just takes it, just stands there and fucking takes it. You hit him again, and his head snaps back, cracking against the edge of the microwave, glasses crunching under your fist. His broken glasses slip off the edge of his nose, and he slumps, knees giving way as he slides to the floor, limbs loose. Shit.  
           You kneel down next to him, and he looks at you, eyes a bit unfocused. "Hey, you okay?" He starts to nod, then grimaces, giving a faint "Yeah" instead.  
           Guilt swirls in your chest for hurting him, and you shove it down, drowning it out with anger. "Really? Because it doesn't look like you're okay. What shit are you trying to pull? Dead weight it and I'll stop hitting you eventually? I mean I could beat up on you all day, but that's a decision you're definitely going to regret in the morning. Because I will beat the shit out of you."  
           "Doesn't matter," he says. His mouth is red, and when he speaks, a little bit of blood drools out the side. "Rose's mom is gonna call the cops. I'll probably go to jail. I should. But I thought maybe it'd help you, to hurt me." His words are thick in a mouth full of blood.  
           "You're not going to jail," you say, sinking down to sit next to him on the tile. "I won't let you." He doesn't say anything, and you guess it's up to you to fill the silence again.  
           "This isn't fair." His eyebrows furrow together, questioning. "I'm your—" you can't bring yourself to say "rape," or "victim" for that matter, so you start over. "You're the one that hurt me, and now you're making me feel all sorry for you and comfort you. That's pretty fucked up."  
           His eyebrows go up, eyes getting big again as his mouth drops open in a little o. And, there's the blood again. Did you break a couple of his teeth? "I…I'm sorry. I didn't think about that."  
           "No shit you didn't. You don't think about anything, ever." You pause, and he wipes at his mouth, smearing blood across his cheek. The heat automatically clicks on, fans whirring, and without looking at him, you say, "I miss you."  
           The words are out of his mouth almost as soon as you close yours. "I miss you too."  
           You look at him then, and realize just how bad he looks. There's a faded bruise on his cheek from the first time you hit him, almost healed all the way. There's a new one blossoming over it, and his right eye is starting to swell up. Lip might be split, still dribbling blood from the corner, like he can't quite keep his mouth closed. Bags under his eyes, stubble on his chin, eyes bloodshot—yeah, he looks about how you feel.  
           "Can't we just go back to being friends?" You bark a laugh, and it tears at your throat.  
           "Doesn't work."  
           He blows out a breath that changes to a hiss of pain about halfway through. Yeah, he's probably got bruises on his chest too. "Isn't there anything I can do?"  
           The heat clicks back off. Bro's cheap ass probably has it set to 55 degrees or something.  
           "Every time you open your mouth, I'm afraid I'm going to lose myself."  
           He doesn't say anything, and you look over at him, eyes widening when you see that he isn't even paying attention, holding his phone in his hands and tapping something out with his thumbs. "Are you texting?" you ask, and you can't help the hurt dripping in your voice, the edge that says, _are you serious_?  
           Egbert looks up, giving you a weak smile, and before you can punch his stupid mouth again, shoves his phone in your face. The lit screen swims in front of your vision for a second before your eyes focus, reading the words, [then i just won't open my mouth!]  
           The phone drops after a few seconds, and Egbert's smile wobbles. You can see the emotions swimming on his face, hope, guilt, and mostly, the feeling that didn't have its own name: feeling unsure of yourself, like life was about to steal your lunch money and use it to buy a baseball bat to beat you with. You reach out a hand, and you can see the way his eyes dull, the drop in his smile as he realizes that, yeah, you were definitely going to hit him again. Then you dropped the hand on his head, giving his hair a ruffle. "Yeah," you say, and it comes out more hoarse than you meant it to, scraping past a throat dry from screaming yourself raw every time you closed your eyes. "That might work."

 

==> John: Screw this all up in spectacular fashion.

           You grin at Dave then, big and wide for just a second before you feel something shifting in your mouth again and drop it, eyes squeezing shut as you feel another stab of pain in your—well, your everywhere. Between Jade and Dave, you feel like you're going to be sore for the next month (and maybe finally give in to your dentist and get braces after all), but if Dave's serious about maybe letting you be his friend again, it's definitely worth it. You tap out [awesome!] and then [i promise not to bring up any of that stuff ever again.] His face drops at the second one, eyes guarded and a little more distant, and your stomach sinks. Shit, no no no, you can't mess this up. [what's wrong?] you tap out, too slow, you've got to get faster at this.  
           "Even if you never talk," he says, "It's still there. You can take over, and I wouldn't even know."  
           You curl in a little on yourself, drawing one leg up carefully and putting your head on your knee. Your head is pounding a little, and you kind of want to lay down, but this isn't really the time for it. Dave looks miserable, skin not just pale but sallow, blood vessels in his left eye burst and turning the whole thing red, spittle at his chin that you're pretty sure he doesn't know is there. His eyes are so discolored it looks like he's got two black eyes, and you just want to hold him and make him feel better. But you can't do that without his permission. That's what got you into this trouble in the first place.  
           [i could fix that.] He stiffens, and you pull your phone back to explain before he shuts you out. [i mean i could erase all the triggers. i think. i've been looking things up and stuff and i think i could do it and shit i just said i wasn't going to talk again and now i'm saying i'm gonna put you under again shit i'm sorry ignore this.] He's looking over your shoulder as you type, and he sucks in a breath when you finish.  
           "No." You nod, shoulders hunching up. [sorry.]  
           He shakes his head. "S'alright. You're trying to help. Just make sure you keep up the whole asking for permission thing." You nod, giving him a little smile. [what was it like?] He pales, and you snatch back your phone to type [nevermind! i didn't mean—] but he puts a hand on yours and you stop. "You really _don't_ think anything through, do you."  
           He takes a breath. "You mean the hypnosis, right?" You nod, nervous.  
           He puts his head back, resting it lightly against the cheap particleboard cabinets behind you. "It's like…you don't even know it's happening, when it happens. Everything feels warm, and soft. You can finally relax, because everything is going to be alright. You're safe." He trails off, and you feel a little sick, thinking about how you made him feel that and then took advantage of it.  
           "I liked it." You start, staring at him, and his eyes roll over to meet yours and gosh, they just look so _sad_. "Letting go. It was nice. I've always been tense and on guard since, I don't know, since I was thirteen. Not sure why. Guess it was the puppets and the sneak attacks and whatever. Hard to sleep most nights, a lot like now really." He pauses, looking away, and you pull your bottom lip between your teeth to chew it, forgetting for a moment that it's bleeding. It oozes a few more drops of blood, and you let it loose, listening to Dave. "So when you started doing stuff I didn't like, it…it fucked me up. Twisted together feeling safe with feeling wrong, letting go with being on guard, trusting with being hurt."  
           [i'm sorry,] you tap out, and the words feel even more useless floating on your phone than they would coming out of your mouth.  
           He smirks a bit, looking more like himself. "Can't take all the credit, Egbert. I was a hot mess before you ever came on the scene. Proof is in how I can't seem to stay away from what I know is bad for me." You don't know what to say to that, so you don't say anything.  
           "C'mon," he says, shifting, and you stand, since that's what he seems to be doing, but he wobbles on his feet, ending up with a hand on your shoulder to keep him steady. [you okay?]  
           "Tired," he says. "Really, really tired."  
           [want me to leave so you can get some sleep?] You're not sure how you're going to get home—Jade's dog disappeared the second Dave opened the door—but you want what's best for Dave, too.  
           He hesitates, his hand sliding off your shoulder. When he starts swaying again, you wave a hand in front of his face, and his head jerks up, eyes still heavy-lidded. You show him your message again, and he shakes his head no, just the tiniest bit.  
           "I…do you think you could. Sleep with me?" His ears are going red, and he won't look at you, which is probably good since you're blushing too. "I think I'd sleep better with someone else with me. Gotta keep the Strider Swag sated, you know." The last is a little weak, but you give him a grin as you nod anyway, hoping that this is really okay. That him, opening up to you, is going to be alright.  
           "C'mon then," and he heads around the kitchen counter to a door on the other side where there's a short hallway, another door, and then his room. You recognize it a little from the backgrounds of the pictures he posts of himself online, though it's much messier than it ever was then, and there's a stale smell in the air that says Dave's been spending a lot of time shut-in lately. Which, of course, is your fault.  
           He stands next to his bed, looking at you, and you cock your head, trying to figure out why he's not climbing in. Does he not want you to look? Is he going to change into pajamas?  
Finally he rolls his eyes and says, "Are you going to get in or do I have to hit you a couple more times until you pass out?" Your eyes widen as you realize, _oh, sleep **with** him_. You kick off your shoes and shimmy under the covers, pressing as close to the wall as you can, facing Dave and trying not to look too nervous. He rolls his eyes again, then climbs in after you, limbs seeming to move slow and heavy. His back is to you, and you think, _okay, this isn't so bad_ , and then he says, "Am I going to have to cuddle myself or are you going to lay over there all night?" You scoot up closer until he sighs and reaches around to grab your arm, pulling it over himself and snuggling pressing back into your chest, and you think, oh, this isn't so bad either. You lift up your free arm to run your fingers through his hair. He stiffens for a moment before forcing himself to relax, tension slowly leaking out of him, as you rub his scalp, going down to the nape of his neck and over to his ear, up to the top of his head, down to the side again, up, nape, side, rubbing his ear, scratching his scalp just a little, softly smoothing his hair out. He makes a little sound and you suddenly realize that his breathing has gradually evened out as he relaxed against you, hand loosely gripping your arm to his chest, and you can't help a soft smile settling over your features.  
           Dave Strider is asleep.

 

==> Bro: Haven't you been gone long enough?

           Your foot eases off the gas just a little, letting the car slow from 60 to 50 as you tear around a corner, eyes on the road as you raise your voice, probably rougher than necessary. "Explain it again."  
           The Rose girl's mother's voice comes through the bluetooth clipped to your ear, a little tinny and slurred. "She just showed up! Big flash of light and bam! Little girl in the lab. Good thing it didn't wake Rosie up, since her skin was all grey and stuff still. But then it was probably the girlie that fixed Rosie, so't doesn't really matter." You work your jaw open, fighting to not clench your teeth as you speed up through a yellow light. "Yeah, and it's nice that your daughter is fine and everything, but the other one—" Jane? Jade? Jade. "Jade, she doesn't know where the Egbert kid went?" You swing into the parking area of your apartment building, taking the first open spot you see and bolting out of the car. It doesn't take much thought to decide to come back for the groceries later.  
           "Nope! She doesn't know at all! Her dog just took him and left, and came back without him a minute later!" You push through the doors to the apartment building lobby, blowing past the always-empty desk and heading for the stairs. "Look lady," you say, losing your patience. "I know you're happy that your daughter isn't about to go rampaging around killing people, but frankly, I'm more concerned that you just told me this Egbert kid—" you don't know what word to use, so you settle with something generic " _hurt_ my little brother, and now no one knows where he is." You pound up the stairs, phone giving a little squawk of static every time you flashstep. "Frankly I'd be alright with your daughter ripping the little fucker to shreds, if it weren't for the pleasure doing so personally would give me."  
           Your phone crackles with another flash-step, and you think you must've lost the call until her voice comes on again, clearer and more forceful this time. "I'd be pissed in your situation," she says, and you wonder if she was just pretending to be drunk, "but you have to remember he's a kid too. What he did was sick," and you feel a twinge in your chest, pushing yourself up the stairs faster, needing to get to Dave faster, "but we shouldn't be talking about killing him, for chrissake."  
           "He should've thought about that," you snarl, "before he fucked _my_ brother." You hang up on her, reaching your floor. _Nobody_ messes with your little brother. The response floats up from the back of your head, unbidden and more subdued: Nobody but you.

 

==> John: Wake up.

           The first thing you feel is steel pressed to your neck.  
           Your eyes open wide, but you're frozen in place, staring up the length of metal to a blonde man in pointy sunglasses you know immediately has to be Dave's Bro. You press deeper into the mattress, trying to relieve the pressure against your skin, but the blade follows after, digging in a little to make a trickle of blood well up and you whimper, eyes wide.  
           That must have woken Dave up, because he shifts in your arms, and you can feel when he opens his eyes, whole body tensing. "Bro," he says, "What are you doing?"  
           Mr. Strider's voice is calm and even when he says, "Well I was getting ready to kill this kid, but you're in the way."  
           Dave is up fast, too fast for you to follow, sword in his hand sweeping back Bro's, driving him hard away from the bed. They flit about the room, blurs of motion and color, but the older man is faster, and you've barely scrambled out from under the covers when he's in front of you again, sword held lengthwise against your throat as he hisses out, "Let him go." You have no idea what he's talking about, and you scramble until your already-sore head hits the wall, making everything dance with black spots for a second. Bro's clutching the front of your shirt, sword still close, too close. Dave is at his back, alternating between threatening him and trying to physically haul him back, and Bro barks out a "This is none of your business," before giving you a shake that slams your head against the wall and sets everything to spinning. "Let him go," he says again, "or I will slit your fucking throat."  
           Another blade appears at Bro's throat then, and he goes still. "This isn't any of _your_ business," Dave says. "We made up. Everything's cool. Now get that blade out of my friend's fucking face or I will shove this sword so far down your throat you'd be shitting knives for a week if you weren't already dead because yeah, swords do that."  
           Bro didn't move, and neither did Dave. John still wasn't sure what was going on. Then Bro spoke. "You need to back off, little bro. You're not in full possession of your mental faculties, not all aware of what's going on because _this_ little dude," he pressed the sword harder against your neck and you gasped, straining back but still getting enough to send another trickle of blood down your neck, "has been tinkering with your brain."  
           John wasn't sure that Bro could see it, since Dave was mostly behind him, but Dave radiated fury, sword trembling in his grip as he shook. "We'll talk about this," and his voice sounds almost like a hiss, all steam and metal and fire, "and I'll explain to you that you don't know _jack shit_ about what's going on. But right now, you need to back off my best bro."  
           They both remained frozen in place for a moment before Mr. Strider' shoulders relaxed, just the tiniest bit, and then they were both drawing back, lowering their weapons and turning to face eachother like you weren't there. Which, frankly, you were cool with. You were a little bit too much of a gibbering puddle of _holy fuck_ to participate in any kind of conversation, and your head was still pounding. You were capable of listening to them, though.  
           "He messed with your brain," Bro said, and Dave rolled his eyes, acting like it wasn't a big deal. "Yeah, I know, I was there for it. I remember."  
           Bro shifts his stance, and you can't see Dave anymore. You wonder if that was deliberate. "If he had you deep enough," he says, voice slow and careful, "you wouldn't remember that you don't remember."  
           "I know. But I trust him."  
           You shift, feeling weird, about them talking about you, yeah, but also a little nauseous, like you might throw up. The room's spinning a little, tilting at the edges, and you wonder if it's okay to puke out the window or will that get you stabbed too.  
           "How do you know that you don't just trust him because he made you?"  
           Dave doesn't say anything for a long time, and you close your eyes. Man, your head really hurts. You open them again, blinking at the bright room when he says, "I don't."  
           You shift, scooting around as stealthily as you can until you see Dave again, biting his lip and looking up at his Bro so angry, so lost. "But I don't want to be afraid anymore. I'm tired of not knowing if I'm doing something because of me, or someone else." You reach into your pocket to fish out your phone, wanting to type out something to Dave, but once you have it out, you can't remember what. "It's not just since John that I've felt that way, either. Everything I do I've been second guessing, trying to figure out if it's really me, if it's my decision or something someone else put in my head. I don't want to care anymore. I just want to let go."  
           His words sound like something he should be saying defiantly or angrily or something-ly, but he just looks sad and small, and you get the sudden urge to hug him. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, standing and taking a step before everything just seems to tilt and then you're on your side and ow, ow ow ow, everything hurts. Bro turns around and sees you, curses dropping from his mouth like raindrops (and for some reason that makes you giggle, the idea that his head is one big raincloud and all his words keep dripping from the sky), and Dave sounds scared scared scared when he says "John?" You want to tell him you're okay but you can't find your phone. Then Mr. Strider shines something bright in your eye and you flinch, trying to wriggle away. "Shit," he says. "I think he's got a concussion." Dave swims into view, and you reach your arms up, trying to pull him into an awkward upside down hug. He takes your arms before you can put them around his neck, pushing them down to your sides. "What does that mean? Should we take him to the hospital? Should he be sitting up? You're not supposed to sleep when you've got a concussion, right?" He shakes your shoulder then, and your eyes open back up, one a little wider than the other from all the swelling.  
           Bro shakes his head. "Not necessarily. He's probably fine." He leans down again to look at your eyes, one hand on your shoulder, and you whimper and hiss as he presses down where Jade hit you earlier. A pair of pointy shades looks at you for a second, a line furrowing between two eyebrows, and then your shirt is being lifted up. He looks under it for five or six or two hundred seconds, then drops the shirt, saying, "We're taking him to the hospital."  
           Dave doesn't protest, just sits you up and puts your arm over his shoulder, helping you to your feet. "Knew you'd regret letting me beat you up," he muttered. "Just didn't think it'd be this soon."  
           Tears start dripping down your face, plopping to the carpet in fat pink drops. You can't seem to control it, and you can't find it in you to figure out why. You head sinks against Dave's shoulder, though you're still walking with him, matching him step for step (mostly). "Love you," you mumble into his hair, and his grip on you tightens, shifting you higher. "I know you do. Now stand up straight or I'm just gonna throw you down the stairs and say we found you like this." You don't want him to throw you down the stairs, but you just feel really, really tired. Maybe if you take a nap, things will be a little clearer.  
           You nuzzle into Dave, closing your eyes, and let the blackness take you.

 

==> Dave: Uhm.  
==> What is going on.  
==> Is Egbert okay?  
==> Do you _want_ him to be okay?  
== > C'mon Dave, talk to us.

           Of course you want Egbert to be okay, what kind of bastard would you be if you weren't worried about your friend going to the hospital with a concussion? (Oh right, the kind of bastard that probably _gave_ him that concussion.) The doctor's say he's fine, though, if a little confused right now, and recovering from a lot of bruises on his chest. His CT's (whatever those are) came back clean, and after a couple days rest, he should be able to go home.  
           What's a little _less_ fine is the number of people who want to contest that.  
           Three, to be exact: Your Bro and Rose, somewhat mollified by Egbert ending up in the hospital, still want to see him wind up in jail. Ms. Lalonde, for her part, just keeps saying he needs help, and wants you and Egbert to go to some kind of mental facility (you'd know what kind if you listened to her talk more than half a minute without going NOPE, nope nope NOOOOOPE). Jade's okay with Egbert going home, but she wants to keep an eye on him at his house, have Bec tale him (she's apparently forgiven the hellbeast for taking off without her, though no one's figured out what that was about), which you guess wouldn't be so bad, and would probably be as good for Jade, living with a real parent, as it would be for John.  
           John's dad, though…  
           The news that your kid is in the hospital is never easy. The news that he probably deserved it is a little worse. The old man doesn't seem to really know what to do, and you've noticed that he's more uneasy when he knows you're around. It's like you're living proof that he's a failure as a parent, and some part of you feels guilt for that, but mostly you feel angry at him.  
           In the end, you wish they'd all just shut up and let you work things out on your own.  
           When you tell them that, glaring at them from Egbert's bedside because they were bickering, again, about what to do with the kid _right in front of him_ , well, that's when the real fireworks start.  
           There's a beat of silence in which Rose and Bro look at eachother, a tiny nod on Bro's part ceding the floor to short blonde and scary-as-fuck. Not that you didn't love Rose. It's just that sometimes, you'd catch her hair floating around in a decidedly tentacle-ish manner, and you couldn't help wondering if she kept it short because she knew it did that sometimes. "Dave," she says, and it's the psychiatrist voice, the infuriatingly gentle one that says 'I care about you, but you're an idiot.' When she continues with, "I care about you, but you're an idiot," it's like you're getting an echo.  
           You hold up a hand to forestall the part you know comes next. "I know I know, I'm an idiot and I can't trust anyone even myself—especially myself—because this fucktard," you hook a thumb to point at Egbert, "scrambled my brains and ate them for breakfast. But there's some hardcore irony going down right here that frankly, I'm pretty disappointed in y'all for not picking up, especially you," pointed look at Bro. "You're all pissed at Egbert for taking away my choice, and it's got you all crazy rabid to take away his," Rose's mouth opened again to make no doubt some completely on point and irrefutable argument, so you just raised your volume, "and mine. I know y'all are mad jealous of the beautiful bromance we've got brewing right before your eyes, but cut us both some slack, alright? You don't trust us alone, yeah, sure, I get that. Trust is pretty much shot between everyone here. All kinds of crazy crisscrossing cracks of broken trust, and sure as _fuck_ no one trusts _me_. But I'd like you to divert just a fraction of all your vast and overwhelming mental capacities to examine the fact that you're forcing me to defend him. This is not, as you seem to think, a sign of me being out of my mind, but a sign of how batshit crazy off the deep-end you've all gone. This is John. _John_. He fucked up. Believe me, I should fucking know! But it's still _John_. He's still _your_ kid," you jab your finger in Mr. Egbert's direction, " _your_ 'brother,' unless that crap about us being your family was complete horseshit," Rose, "and one of _your_ best friends!" Jade. "So if there is one word out of any of your mouths that isn't motherfucking kumbayah, I am taking this kid right here," John, "and walking out of the hospital right now, and none of you will see either of us ever again. And yeah, that's a pretty terrible plan. Who knows what could happen. But you people are not giving me very many options to work with."

           Silence descended on the room, and it's only now that you've stopped talking that you look at Egbert, his notebook clutched to his chest and staring at you with wide eyes. You snatch the notebook out of his hands with a "Gimme," that he protests, trying to keep it in his grip, but, yeah, there was basically no way you weren't going to win that contest.  
           [i trust you.]  
           You stare at the words on the paper for a minute, feeling the restless eyes on you but not sure what to do. Finally you just hand it off to Rose, still staring at you expectantly. You sit down on Egbert's bed, rubbing your eyes, feeling tired. Rose is passing the notebook off to the others instead of just reading it out loud, guess it's more dramatic that way. You slip a hand into Egbert's, squeezing gently. "Thanks."  
           When everyone's seen the note, Jade hands it back to you. Then she whistles to Bec and walks out, him trailing behind her. Rose follows, then her mother. Bro flashes out of sight, though you know he's still around somewhere, watching and listening. You doubt either of the Egbert's are aware of his presence.  
           Mr. Egbert hesitates at the foot of the bed for a minute before reaching one hand out and patting John's leg once, twice. "The food they serve here is atrocious," he says, averting his eyes. "I'm going to go home and bake a cake." Then he leaves, too.  
           "I think that was him saying he's proud."  
           John barks out a laugh, though it fades quickly. [he shouldn't be.]  
           You sigh. You can't really argue with him. Now that everyone else is gone and you don't have to defend John against them, you feel your own hurt and anger at him more clearly. In true Strider fashion, you shove it down and do your best to ignore it.  
           "S'okay," you say. "I'll keep you in line. You ever do anything too crazy, and I'll send your ass right back to the hospital." He laughs again, eyes sparkling, and you roll your eyes. "Jesus, Egbert, at least try to pretend that the idea of me pulverizing you with my fists of fury doesn't set your flesh a-quivering." He laughs a bit more, and you give him a smile. _Yeah_ , you think. _This might not turn into a total clusterfuck of hate and self-doubt_.  
           Just got to keep your wits about you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading this far :3
> 
> And! Some more [art](http://verokitty724.tumblr.com/post/17297826307/im-never-going-to-finish-this-because-everytime-i)!


	17. Sleep Tight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll actually be including my notes/thoughts/and things in the comments! So if anyone wants to see them, that's where they'll be.

==> Bro: Pop out like a ninja assassin (a ninja that is an assassin, not an assassin that kill ninjas; that's stupid) and get your murdering on. 

           Nah.

==> But. Revenge.

           You're good.

==> Revenge?

           Dude, that shit happened like a month ago, if you were going to get revenge it would have been then. Besides, you can't really justify getting revenge on your little bro's behalf, all things considered.  
           So you watch them play videogames in some dumb arcade like the pair of dorks they are instead, John grinning wildly as he shoots at badguys in TimeCrisis 4, Dave sporting a nonchalant smirk as he easily hits all his targets and tosses the gun around a few times, just for show. John laughs, the sound ringing out across the room when their high scores appear onscreen, holding his hand up for a high five. You can see Dave's mouth move in response, though you can't hear him, and John drops his hand into a fist, looking sheepish as Dave gives him a solid bump. They're both still a little fragile, a little too careful in the way they move around eachother, in the way John presses his lips together and tries not to make any sounds, in the way Dave's afraid to touch him for more than a few seconds at a time, unless it's when he's going to sleep. You're still not convinced this is going to work out, but you figure you owe it to the kid to at least try.  
           Dave is more relaxed on the drive home, not really talking, but drumming his fingers on the surfaces of the car, humming something under his breath, and the corner of your mouth ticks up for a brief second, knowing that he's started composing again.  
           Seeing him like this makes you wonder what he would have been like if none of it had ever happened.

           It took a while, for everyone to come around. That Harley girl made it work more than anyone else; she seemed like a pretty good kid, and it makes you kind of wish you'd met the guy who raised her. She lives with the Egberts now, "keeping an eye on John," she said, but also so that they could all see eachother more often. You weren't sure how that dog of hers worked exactly, but if it meant no one had to pay airfare every time the kid wanted John over to play videogames, you were good with that. She chaperoned things when Dave went out to Washington, too, though that hadn't happened much yet—you'd say too many bad memories, but you have a feeling it's more to do with the fact that you always tag along, and they end up being watched by you, Egbert, and Harley, instead of just you.  
           You just can't let your little bro out of your sight.  
           That Rose chick is doing alright, you think. Creepy little fucker, but the right ideas about family and revenge. A lot like you, actually. Her mom keeps calling you up, alternately asking you out for drinks and wanting to know if Dave wants to come up for a visit. You're thinking about saying yes, though you're not sure you trust either of you in the clutches of those women. But you can't keep Dave locked away forever. You know that trying to would destroy him completely.  
           To that end, the Harley girl is coming out next week for a day, just her and Dave. You hope Dave will take to her, finally have a real relationship in his life that isn't centered around him following orders.  
           You hope he'll turn out normal. (You know he never will.)  
           (Not with you raising him.)

           He still has nightmares.  
           They don't come every night. Or maybe they do, and he manages to keep quiet sometimes. You wouldn't know; he doesn't like talking about them with you. He doesn't trust you to keep your cool, you guess. Isn't that ironic.  
           He has one that night, thrashing in his sheets and yelling something awful. You wake him up by tossing Lil' Cal on his chest, which he hates, but it beats him dislocating your shoulder again. He shudders, dark circles under his eyes and hair sticking to his forehead, matted with sweat. You leave Lil' Cal, exiting his room and going back to the futon.  
           Dave follows. He knows the drill.  
           You pull back the covers, settling in on one side, not looking at him because you know it makes him feel forced. Dave stretches out in front of you, all awkward limbs and doubt, not sure if he's too close. You slip an arm around him, hand resting on his chest to let him know it's okay. He tenses, then forces himself to relax. He'll probably never understand why he sleeps better with someone bigger at his back, someone strong holding him, but it doesn't change the fact that he does. You can still feel his heart racing from his back pressed to your chest, too thin, too small, and you wish the last four years hadn't happened, that he was just Dave and you were just his older brother. But they did happen, and you're Bro, and he's your little bro.  
           You run a hand through his hair, gently playing with the fine blonde strands as you murmur in his ear, "Sleep tight." His heartbeat slows, his weight suddenly heavier and looser in your grip as his breathing becomes deep and even, and though you can't see it, you know his eyes have fluttered closed. Dave is asleep instantly.


End file.
